At the edge of an orange construction cone
a tiny car burrows into the soil.
The paint shine long stripped from metal
speaks to the revving by small hands,
the back and forth the vroom-vroom,
the choreographed wipeouts.
A bent axle prevents the die-cast frame
the glee speed once provided.
A nearby resale shop
has sixty-three orange track sections,
each about a yard long,
and no connectors to bring them all together.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
As a kid, I had Hot Wheels cars and track. I remember Larry and I would combine our sets to make a super long track layout for the cars to zoom. We had races and single elimination bracket competitions for the myriad of cars we acquired as birthday presents, purchased with allowances or chore’s money, and found. We both were surprised how many Hot Wheels cars we found on our walks to school with our friends.
The other day I came across a purple-ish Hot Wheels car on my 2.5 mile walk to the cafe where I do most of my writing. With the construction cone nearby and the digging by the city streets department workers, it appeared as if they dug up the Hot Wheels car and were unaware of it when a shovel pitched dirt into a pile.
I noticed it, stored the image, made poems. I wish I had gotten my shoes muddy and picked it up.
Love & Light