American Nightmare

After James Arthur

The red, white, and blue lights
of a white Ford Crown Victoria
flash in my rearview.

A mix of local punk from a student ghetto free box
"You and I could be lovers on the run in 1933"
drowns out the roly-poly siren.

Ford decided to retire the model this year.

I pull onto a side street. I got a warning last time.
The news won't be good.
I expect citations, but not hancuffs.

He makes me stand against my sky-blue Hyundai Accent
and pats me down.
Boyish with a crew cut,
he reminds me of my brother, the Army captain.

It is night.
Soon I'm in Orwell's place of no darkness.
The sun shone as I drove to Carlsbad
one of the last times I saw my mother
before she died of stage four liver cancer.

Driving too fast, I got pulled over.
Life and death happen and make one forget
trivialities like unpaid traffic tickets.

In the holding cell, I tell a woman with cranberry eyes
proverbial ghetto trash
about something I read online about
warning signs that one is in a bad relationship.

A good feminist, I say she doesn't have to stay
with the boyfriend who gave her the bruises she displays
on her body.
I can't remember where.


I have always had problems with insomnia.

I watch the waif coming down from heroin,
blowing her nose on my black cashmere sweater.
Valerie Stevens,
a thrift store find, but still.

Thinking my experience was interesting
is a defense mechanism.