by John A Hicks

At first, I thought a brown dress glove
on the floor of the parking garage,
its seams raised like tendon lines
stiffening the back of my hand.
A life exhaled was folded flat,
composed like rain-dried leather.

The BMW was in my space again.
I saw my windshield note was gone.
I did not despair; now I wielded a bat.
With care I placed my new friend
against the driver’s window: an armored
send-off fitting a Teutonic Knight.

My angel took the car today;
gone, no doubt to a better space.

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