Endings

Look, she says,
and there’s a junkyard
out the cafe car,
every car smashed,
like their drivers
couldn’t stand another
moment of doubt.
None of these cars
rolled to a stop.
No one was left holding
a useless steering wheel
wondering what comes next.
I want to put the beauty
back in my poetry,
she says. I’m tired
of telling the truth
just to be telling
the truth. Do you know
what I mean?
I barely listen when
people talk this way.
It’s why I tell no one
I’m a poet.
She wants me
to read her poems
and nothing I say
will make her happy.
More than one car
has its roof rolled up
like a sardine can,
their passengers
lifted towards the stars
and away from the light.
The junkyard’s tow truck
must be listening
to a police scanner.
Maybe it’s a team,
someone to haul
the cars and someone
to sweep the glass
and throw the kitty litter
on the grease.
She tells me she doesn’t
like it when poems
have endings.
I don’t believe her.