I love you. I love you not.

I love you. I love you not.

A sun-bleached Buick with a cracked dashboard.
A Ford Taurus that smells like wet cigarettes.
An El Camino with its own personal Jesus.

Here, the streamers wave like homecoming queens.
And the paycheck-loan Okies come along eyeing the inventory of
Springsteen’s burned out Chevrolets.

I have been here before, when I was a child.
Looking for hope and redemption in repos and lemons.
Nostalgic, am I? For flashes of tinsel, and teeth of wire.