Car Trouble

“Your steering wheel is going to need to be aligned. It won’t know where to go, it won’t have a direction,” a man with the same name as me said. I ate chicken in the parking lot of a pharmacy. Someone I care about told me they don’t like apologies when I felt I deserved one. I sweated, but it made my skin glow. I wondered if a new friend passive-aggressively bashed me on a public forum. My sister called and she sounded like me. I did adult things. I wanted to leave my car on Gower for someone to take. I researched prices of owning a cabin on Green Valley Lake. “Daddy, did you like it at the bank?” a small child asked over and over while the father ignored him and examined items. I wonder if the only way to reach anyone is by exploitation and provocative allure because our brains are desensitized. Are you desensitized to that radish-root love deep down under baby worms? I’m listening to an acoustic version of a song that was my favorite during middle school. My dog is staring at me from the floor. There is one light on in the hallway and my room is bare and dark. I drank too much ice tea and now my throat is dehydrated. I want to shuffle my loved ones’ houses around like the magic trick with cups and balls and manual dexterity. I want the pretty green dress. There are very expensive alternative health classes available only for the wealthy. I put powder on me when I itched. The old French man is leaving the building.