There in the driveway like a dead turtle, unable to budge despite
all effort to spark it back to life, this thing like a precious limb of rubber,
plastic and metal rather than bone, flesh and blood, yet needed to get from
here to there,, no way to fix it yet, the wait for the shop to open and the
town truck to come, this impatience, this terrified belief it will never recover
and I will have to find something else to fill its space. I don’t mourn it any
more than a surgeon might a heart-stopped patient, pounding on its chest in a
futile attempt to bring it back to life, this has no heart, no spark, but my
own heart beats in a panic in my chest, as I plead with god or fate or whatever
to raise it like Lazarus, in desperate need of a miracle.
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