Last Supper

Under the full moon,
on the floor of the Subaru Outback with leather seats and a back up cam,
are the remains of a chili cheese hot dog from 7-Eleven;
an empty bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos;
a Charleston Chew wrapper (cherry flavored);
a medium-sized Shamrock Shake partially consumed, tipped on its side;
Marlboro Light butts in the dips of the emergency break;
a PBR tall boy tossed into a child’s car seat;
an empty bottle of Wild Turkey nestled in a blanket stinking of dog breath.
There’s a cell phone with a cracked screen and a text from Maura reading,
“Taking kids to mom’s. Don’t call.”
Once the man looked like Chandler Bing,
now he’s melted on the dashboard of a car
where a tree stopped him cold.
There is nothing in the trunk.

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