by Camilla Jean Welsch
In the right frame of mind,
I would drive a nondescript white sedan
down a side street
in the warm, late-spring afternoon
in the suburbs,
when basketballs bouncing between boys
on driveways are just beginning to be heard,
and girls with their mothers
are humming along on main streets towards the mall,
in cars that are dependable and financed well,
to shop for dresses and hair accessories and bejeweled sandals for May’s prom.
In a nondescript white sedan,
of whom nothing about the driver is expected or known,
but rather disregarded and discounted
as somebody poor with somewhere poor to go,
heading into the city ghetto,
I would be in the right frame of mind
to be a nobody whom nobody knows.
And the thought speaks to me
as I see the sedan coming towards me,
while I walk my dog on the sidewalk slabs,
because it is actually only my idea,
and not my sedan.
But I see it like a drug promising glowing reverie
with the setting of the sun before me…
the nothingness of being no one
in a nondescript sedan.
For one moment, I can.
And now she is past,
but I imagine being that woman,
driving with all the windows down
because there’s no A/C
(but somehow that’s romantic to me),
and parking that white sedan
with its little bit of rust
and missing hood ornament,
not in a ghetto drive as one supposed,
but instead at the city beachfront lot,
being alone and no one for one moment.
And then it wouldn’t matter if I came back
dragging some sand
on my worn-flip-flopped feet into that car
(after all, that’s what it was made for)
and I’d probably light a cigarette
resting my wrist out the window
with an orange ember glow,
like, what the hell, might as well….
maybe not in the right frame of mind.
But dreaming well.