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The first car of my broken automotive dreams

looked like a waffle maker with acne
and cost the equivalent of
eight thousand four hundred sixteen
bussed tables in a black tie restaurant.
Its redheaded owner
who had lost her appetite for waffles
originally quoted me
at six thousand three hundred twelve bussed tables
but after the realization that
my teenage heart was set on
scrap iron waffles like murder
in a Quentin Tarantino film
she added those couple thousand extra tables
for her own good measure.
The steering system of the waffler
handled like a day old jelly donut
and took me places I never asked to go
like a rickshaw in Toronto
or a New Jersey golf cart
and when I got to these places
I had lunch with a lady who wore
a shawl made of peacocks
and we shared a
pastrami and cheese sandwich
with mayonnaise.
 
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