angel in my oldsmobile
sometimes my inner workings hesitate
like a sixty-nine cutlass
in the back seat my hopeful angel
looks out half-opened window
elbows on arm rest
chin supported by hands
eyes cast upwards she interprets
unspoken words
as they race past silently
like high-flying clouds
the night sky indicates
low temperatures are inevitable
but who’s to say when autumn
shall begin and end
there comes a point where nobody
really cares when the dead of winter
has finally set in
and as long as I have my angel
inside my winterized oldsmobile
I’m bound to witness
the ides of march again
september two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
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