Harmless, your car is made of beautiful pieces of fiberglass. I put my face down on the window. I thirst. I touch your car. I touch the wheels of your car with my finger and imagine how warm your trunk must be. There is rubber and there is steel and at night I will come through your garage and not even hide. I hope you have left your doors unlocked. I hope you will trust me. The license plate like an invitation. The windows so clean they wet my throat.
Hold me, the license plate changes constantly. I never know what I am looking for. This is a picture on copy paper. This is a piece of copy paper with a picture of a license plate on it. The numbers keep changing. I see a row of silver cars. 199. 199. 192. I will drive this block for hours. I will put my leg outside. I will fall into the cement like a ring and you will leave me there alone. Walking the garages like a thief. Walking the garages like a trashcan in the corner of the garages. I will keep moving. The piece of paper blowing out the window, onto the curb. The copy paper blowing on the curb like a leaf raking towards a bag. Like a bag of shit you left near the fence. A bag of shit. The numbers changing.
Hold me, nothing is safe. My Sweatshirt is a bulletproof vest. I carry two knives. Nothing is secure. My sweatshirt is made of weak cloth. I climb under the fence. I murder boredom with these two long knives. I fold them into my pocket like a wonderful roll of money. I keep this safe. I move very quickly. I am a dream. I am invisible until you catch me counting parking spaces. You question me and quickly shut the fuck up. There are no dreams which can explain my behavior. I am a body of dimes. I roll across the parking lot. I am a body of secret felonies.
Harmless, when I go away. I take your keys with me. I leave your things. Your bag of suits. Your special change. I have so many numbers in my head I can’t remember colors. I think synesthesia. I cannot explain this to you. When you come after me you are like a fistful of thumbtacks. Each one a different color. I am worried you might cry. Your tears like shredded tires. Your tears coming out from beneath the shiny lens of your glasses.
Thomas Patrick Levy’s work has appeared in various journals and publications including Pear Noir!, Kill Author, PANK, and the New York Quarterly. Visit him online at http://www.thomaspatricklevy.com.
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