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Poetry by Craig Kirchner 

Craig, a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, lives in Maryland.



© 2007 Craig Kirchner






Car Talk


They talk to us,

tell us the ambient temperature,

when to turn,

of course they talk to one another

and not in that polite,

mild-mannered 'Hal' tone they give us,

but in the timbre one would expect.



revving at the red light

300 horsepower GTO,

the next light only six seconds away.


Eat my dirt sonny!


to the blue Camry

in a guttural Stallone.



gossiping on the office parking lot,

snob Mercedes and BMWs

in their designated spaces,

bragging on their maintenance

and new-car smell.


Pulease! He's sleeping with who?


always incorporating the owners

as newlyweds, soul-mates or adulterers,

attempting class,

sounding like James Mason

and Lauren Bacall.



behind the disco,

sharing voyeur and upskirt episodes.

The Lebaron swooning,

smelling like pot and boudoir.


I love the latex mini

  twisting its butt in my bucket.


from the Mustang Mcqueen cool,

with his stained back seat

and leather fetish.



once-a-week friends,

Sunday mornings at church-

the white Lincoln

telling the black Buick --


Eventually they'll run out of cars

to blow up in Iraq

and want to start shipping them in.


prognosticating presidential

but in a John McCain

kind of way.







All work is property of Craig Kirchner.




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