You live in a pigeon pen above a
series of car repair shops
and love motels for a while—
then come talk to me.
Real talk: this run-by-Queen-Victoria
British Empire outpost
of the history of the goddamn
complete world
—opium, Scottish
Presbyterian gangster shit,
the main flavour
profile for toothpaste, incidentally.
What a charge. Hit the gas so hard
make it rotate. I’m not
no Airbnb nigga,
I went to driving school,
drove a plug-in hybrid
sports car by Porsche
in my mind, 918 Spyder
maximum torque insect in my mind,
fastest electric coffin ever maimed.
All my niggas blew up like a propane
except me.
The cockpit is above
the mounds of fabric, ruffling
my waxen face.
I have a great LeBron face
for you.
And you, and you, and you.
Shane Book is an award-winning poet and filmmaker. His writing has appeared in more than twenty anthologies, including The Great Black North: Contemporary African Canadian Poetry.
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