By Parker Logan

The moon hangs over the bayou in a way 
   that would make Linda Ronstadt yearn for a place 
that never existed  

   when I see my employer’s brand new,  
formerly-sky-blue, Ford Bronco bump off towards 

the city, tires still clean after two and a half weeks  
   of sitting stashed a thousand feet away from the dumpster  
filled with animal waste and saw dust,  

   not a single spit of dirt whipped up 
on the now-silver-wrapped four doors 

   I haven’t been able to look away from: 
I thought they were filming a movie, 
   that cream colored dream of a vehicle 

      parked over the lines in the placard 
spaces where all the big bosses park, 

   right next to the mechanic’s No Parking door. 
      I’m full-body pig-squealing  
and I’m not sure why. I know 

   people make money at my job, 
mix drinks and don’t get hang overs, 

   swim in the sea lion pool on storm watch, 
and I don’t even own a car, don’t wanna spend 
      the rest of my summers worrying 

about a promissory note when we’re all broke 
   except for my bosses, apparently, 

      but that’s not a surprise: I work  
at the fucking zoo, which is like a circus,
 
   and there’s always a clown with a big red 
nose at those things, only ours 
   swindles millions in the name 

of community outreach, neighborhood improvement, 
   big developments, exciting new construction projects 
      to make the city more contiguous, baby, 

   grimey cash, and why the fuck 
did he paint the car millenial greige like my old coworkers 

at the library liked: what was that guy thinking, 
   dropping money on a beauty 
just to knock its teeth in? Even I know 

it’s sin to take a song bird’s wings 
   and clip them 

      or sell a work horse in its prime 
to make glue. Look: all I’m saying is 
   I’ve been eyeing things and coveting 

others material possessions, fondling  
   my little life in my right hand and the world 

in my left, and ever since kindergarten 
      I’ve been a southpaw 
swinging like a mad clown, myself, on the playground. 

I’ve been counting my nickels, 
   saving my dimes,  

and nothing I own looks so cool 
   as that besmirched automobile in the moon light, 
      desire wading deep in the water. 

---

Parker Logan is from Orlando, Florida and lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. His work has appeared in Split Lip Magazine, Fog Lifter, The Texas Review, and elsewhere. He is a program coordinator at a park in New Orleans.