My entry for the NYT's Donald Trump Poetry Contest
The Year of Magical Thunking
“I’ve never told anybody this
but for a year I lived in my car
in a garage on 53rd and sixth.
After the Coney Island units
collapsed, I couldn’t sleep inside
anymore—I’d get all *gasp gasp.*
Maybe I was going nuts! Who
knows. Don’t get me wrong:
it was a very expensive car but still.
Every night I’d lay my suit and shirt and socks
out on the hood, curl up in the backseat,
and it’d be morning just like [snap]!
I never remembered a thing! It was like
I’d been carried into the next day by
a blackout train and I’d wake up to sun
streaming in between the concrete beams,
dust specs flying around like little helicopters.
It was actually quite beautiful to be
honest with you. My shirt and socks
would always be clean, my suit pressed—
I think my mother did that. But here’s
the magic part: the drawers I’d slept in
would be inside out! I know! Crazy!
But this made them easier to peel off
and throw in the trashcan ‘cause I
could see my dirt so clearly! See
what I mean? I was right there,
saying, 'Don’t touch me.'"