What Difference A Car Makes

Where antique moonlight is swathed around
ancient olive trees, she sat, the haunted old
woman, so gripped by a vast melancholy that
dogs howled when she came near.

She had been so proud and beautiful, but not,
perhaps, attractive enough; never took the bus to
town, only private cars would do, gave herself
for ride in shiny black Mercedes.

The cruelty of old age, it’s been ten years now
since anyone gave her a lift, a Honda van, and
when she refused to kiss the overall clad driver,
he had told her to get out

These regrets burdening her sad heart, it was her
mother who had said she was too good for yokel.
Chilly night, she was so tired; her last ride, days
later, was in a shiny black Mercedes.

by jan oskar hansen

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