The kids of the man who owns the salvage yard
Like to crawl into wrecks and pretend
To be husband and wife driving into town
On a Friday night. Some they canít get into,
Even through the flanged hole the Jaws of Life
Tore in the roof, but they arenít interested
In the cars that no longer resemble cars.
Theyíre drawn towards the ones that might
Conceivably still run, though this isnít to say
There wonít be comets of blood on the dash
And shatter-stars in the windshield where
Their heads hit before they settled back
Like newlyweds watching television.
The boy always drives. The wheel doesnít turn
As much as he wishes it would, but it serves
To keep them headed straight. The girl seems
Always to manage to find a tube of lipstick
In the glovebox. She flips the sun visor down
To apply it in the mirror, her face floating
Above the hairline crack. And when she smacks
Her lips like sheís seen girls do in sitcoms,
He takes his eyes off the road.