My Car Must Think I Don’t Love it Anymore. A poem by Fionnaigh O’Connor

My car must think I don’t love it anymore
As I’ve not left the house or gone out the doorIt sits in the driveway earnestly waiting
Immobilisation not yet abating

It thinks as it flashes its wipers and lights
That I’ll take it mornings and take it out nights

It silently stands there living in hope
That someday I’ll relent and throw it a rope

I imagine how rejected my Peugeot must be
Feels dejected and useless
As useless can be

One day I must give it a clean and a wash
To make it feel valued and make it feel posh

I cry when I think of my poor little car
Who beeps to itself
“I wonder where you are?”


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