Good Morning the Automaster

I’m waiting for new tires
A rusted roofing nail
The catalyst of this outing

I’ve passed the time
Reading the news
Reading poetry to counter act my despair of reading the news
Observing conversations

A salesman paces
There are not many cars to sell
I can’t think of anything worse than selling cars

There is a museum here
A cluttered hallway
Filled with kitschy oddities
In stark contrast to the sleek dealership

The complimentary coffee
Is hot but weak
The stage coaches are now leaving the building

I’m still waiting
Stretched out in an April sun beam
Smiling to myself
Because
Rutabaga sounds more like the name of an angry gnome
Than a root vegetable