Afflatus.

In the morning, my cold Car rolls on, sounding Like tincans sadly trailing The wedding car weeks after the honeymoon; Its muffler, its antenna In poor shape, upholstery Flat and dirtprinted from enthusiastic Children Its windscreen fogs happily, Letting the driver in on The screw that he is still alive and by his very breath is providing evidence of sentient motion, taking space, obscuring the view and the way