Fairy Tale & Driver’s License

A Fairy Tale About Love, A Fairy Tale About Money, A Fairy Tale That’s True

Carly graduates first in class, voted Best Banger
Bangs at Hollywood’s Beauty Institute. Searching
for a pumpkin she lost at the beach, saves

a drowning man selling dune buggies
the color of sea glass. Frogs are dangerous—
she’s kissed some with Prince-like promise.

Franz always wears Australian Uggs,
sleeps on a Tempur-Pedic, rewards her
by playing the jazz flute. He’s just right for her.

Let’s go to Vegas for forever! she declares.
Rich with distraction, spell as subtle as a cobra
dancing, he dares, How about an adventure

—let’s gamble! Presented a wand fine as
blue powder, she wins the jackpot
with tip-money math. Seeing stars

sparkle like coins and no bank account
of her own, he offers, Sign the $1M over;
you can get checks from mine. She buys

them a luxury car. Fuckboys are slick
smart laying breadcrumbs, he cuts and runs
in the Lexus, changes his number, goes dark.

With just enough hair on her sculpted chin,
she brings charges against the casino, for what
I can’t remember. Pays the IRS all the tips

she didn’t withhold. This time the casino
does the rescuing—gives her the Lexxus,
he the keys to a tower in the high desert.

She builds a house made of brick
and a one-car garage, where
she parks her orange Chevy Spark.

says twelve years into the future
—will I be road worthy then?

Seems a long time to go
unchecked, road or any wise.

I get on the highway, see a deer
close to tendered in cement shoes,

making a run to the underbrush,
path vaporized with headlights,

eight cylinders, an Act of God,
State Farm claims. I hope

it can run on three legs,
one broken and make it back

to grass. The driver—
what you call them instead

of killer, clenching no mercy
but a knocked-off Wild, Wonderful

license plate and a skintight scowl.
Ironic: the car’s wheel carcass

as punctured as my spirit.
I wish them, too, stranded

on three wheels, trafficking a lead
foot for handcuffs and a blanket party.

Highway to the next town a clear
shot. I drive, cross-haired, shaken

like the deer, in search
of sunflowers and acorns,

miscalculating the broadside,
just trying to get home.