Starship
Waving arms and cavernous
mouths, devour happiness,
on the outside of the glass,
your blue Ford a sanctuary,
a Galaxy 1964 My starship
in oxidized Guardsman Blue,
blasts me away
The steering wheel, warm,
with pitted chrome,
fits my small hands
I'm flying to Mars,
or blasting to Venus,
or Texarkana, far off
worlds without you
I flip the chrome switches,
roll up the shields
I turn the shiny cold knobs to
find a signal,
a hope,
a better life
When you board again &
slide into the big bench seat:
What is unfaithful?
What does affair mean?
I don't want another mommy,
but you disengage,
roll down the shields
and light another
cigarette.
By Mike Cantu
Biography:
Michael Cantu is a recent recipient of an MFA from CSU Fresno in the heart of California's Central Valley. His writing explores the difficulty of life and the understanding of one's self. He works within the realms of loss and longing, loneliness and fear, and the euphoria of rare moments of enlightenment. His work has appeared in: "HAIS: a literary journal," "Flies, Cockroaches, & Poets," and "Kaleidoscope Literary Magazine." When not creating, he works as an English teacher helping underserved youth find their voices.
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