Transport

I am crushed
under the weight
of my transgressions,
and a blue Buick
with soft insides
carries me home,
bones and fat
and humility.
Because it's all true.
I am all hormones
and dangling modifiers
and sleepy memories.
And I am a tired someone.
I am someone's dream girl,
latched onto the arm
of a smiling friend,
warm and tired and simple.
The Buick cradles me
and for once
I am tiny somewhere,
a plush thing,
rattling around behind
heavy doors.
I am carried off
into a large city
or a small town,
some place
with a funny name,
some place where
I am a welcome witch,
where my spells are blessings
and the blue Buick
can be parked undisturbed.