December eleventh
two thousand four
sixteen fifty p.m.,
she started Cheyne-Stokes,
sputtering life fluids
as she lay just above
the inky negra pool.
Her last words were raspy,
clanky and awkward,
sputter, churn, grind...
She fought for la vida
at the octagon-shaped
red stop sign that
signalled her demise.
Bueno Sucia, la punta!
How can you leave me?
Her heart lung machine,
her very engine that
kept her running...
malfunctioned.
Adios, my minivan.
You have served me well
from the time my babies
rode in carseats.
You have protected
mi familia from
fatal accidents
with your nurturing
bosomy airbags.
But a broken engine
won't do either of us
any good...so I'm loading
my shotgun, preparing
the lethal injection.
I will never forget you,
red and bold like salsa,
with so much capacity
for holding the groceries
which gave us nourishment.
I promise to give you
a proper burial
at the local junkyard...
unless you would prefer
...cremation?
Feliz Navidad, mamia,
a brand new book
of payment coupons
in your stocking~
Dios Mio, Chica!
