Sunday for Spite

In that half turn
from Oraton onto Chester,
a boat and a stove
kiss
in the morning mist off the Passaic,
crunchy brownish weeds
vying to separate them –
bland tang
of a sticky communion wafer
clinging to my tongue.
I run it over my teeth,
and look out the back of the Oldsmobile
-the way back seat, facing behind,
leaning out the back window-
the door lock smoothly grinding
up
and down
between
my thumb
and forefinger.
Muddy gray Keds and goosebumped shins curving
Into scabby, ruddy knees.
– Sit back.
Eyes flash in the vanity,
just catching my
defiance
as it descends
and drowns
into the air conditioning vent,
caked with dust and grime
and tiny greenish springtime buds
hinting cherry blossoms in their pale tips.
I blow them carelessly
onto the slanted floor mat,
and hope for coffee and donuts.