91ÊÓƵ

Rustless

I remember believing magic 
might someday be used to save me. 

I remember when the front seat 
was a bench from door to door. The shifter 

thumbed out from the steering column. 
I remember when no cars were new, 

or rustless, or waxed to a gloss; when mom 
thumped the side of my soft haircut 

with her fist; full force, and just as hard 
the third time. There were medicines…

rancid broth in ghoulish black bottles, 
no matter the malady. Now I sit bereaved 

of the buoyancy that brought me
to adulthood. How the sight of big skies 

through a child’s ignorance of the unseen, 
poured into me a wondrous dread. Beyond 

any horizon lurked quicksand brimming 
with bodies, or dinosaurs…or a cliff 

dropping to bottomless black. I no longer 
wish for nothing more than to fall in, 

but I miss not knowing all 
that the years since have forced upon me.

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91ÊÓƵ the Author

Matthew Donovan is a retired, professional firefighter currently working for a Local Government. He was born and raised in the Bronx, and lives in Connecticut with his wife Stephanie and their two daughters. His poetry has been published in Fine Lines, Beyond Words, Open Door, Dodging the Rain and Eve Poetry.