by Word Raccoon

Now Playing: “More Than Words,” Extreme

Psst… persona prose poem ahead. No need to panic. No need to @ me. It’s just Word Raccoon, cruising in metaphor. A revised version may appear elsewhere in the future.

Once upon a Sopranos-soaked decade ago,
Word Raccoon had a very specific dream:
a Cadillac Escalade.
Gold wheels.
A statement.
Obnoxious.
Tacky.
Ironic.
A middle finger dipped in rhinestones.

She was in a mood (and probably wearing a shrug) and rightfully so.

She pictured herself Tonka-trucking over whoever looked at her funny.
Or at the very least, feeling extremely safe in a snowstorm.

Sometimes she didn’t want to feel safe. Opposite, really. 

She wanted to fishtail down gravel roads and 

break down without cell service,

have to walk home 

in shoes with a broken heel.

hitchhiking into the past

and picking herself up 

in a semi

and taking herself 

an alternate route. 

Or just make it to the DQ before they closed at ten. 

But.

The universe blinked slowly at this dream/nightmare vehicle.
So did her bank account.
So did her husband.

So she compromised.
A little.

She set aside the fantasy
not entirely, let’s not be dramatic
and started noticing what could be beautiful and soft without requiring financing.

She took long drives in her succession of cars, the total value of which was probably still less than her beloved Escalade, but rarely on country roads.
Admired light on cornfields like it was a runway.
Turned old roadmaps into love letters she shredded, unread, by moonlight.
Built stories with pen and paper instead of purchasing horsepower.

As of today, she drives a Cadillac crossover: smaller, silver, sensible, with no regrets. She LOVES it and can scarcely contain her desire to drive all night. 

No gold wheels, but she still wears her sunglasses like armor,
still dares anyone to underestimate her at a four-way stop.

And yet, she’ll be the first to wave you on through. 

Because the dream wasn’t about the car.
It was about running over the things that wouldn’t get out of her way, metaphorically.

It was about being higher than everyone else

not out of snobbery,

but so she could finally see

where the hell she was.

Where she was going.

Where she’d been.

Her bearings. Herself.

A perspective she suspected

most people never even thought to ask for.

Maybe never knew existed.

She wanted to show up like she meant it.

And baby, she always means it.

Cars come and go. 

Art is forever. 

She can live without many things, has and will, if she must. 

But not without her art. 

Say it again for those in the cheap seats.

Oh, wait. Art has no cheap seats. 

👓 Author’s Note:

Word Raccoon would like to clarify that she still thinks Escalades are a vibe, and would like to sit in one just once and recline dramatically with a smoothie and yell at Tony while wearing sunglasses and maybe a (fake) fur coat. But she’s also just pretty jazzed to have found these VERY COOL wheels with husband, who says it can be her baby. She’s not arguing. 

And yes, she will be writing poems in the new car. Parked just slightly askew, because that’s how she rolls and because she can’t park for shit.

And now, with 90s ballads in the speakers and a pen in the console,

Word Raccoon is revved up in every sense.

Beware the poem she writes in the coffeehouse parking lot.

It might be about you. 

You should be so lucky, love. 

Carmela just had her nails done. 

She’s deciding if you’re worth messing them up for.

This is all to say that hey, Word Raccoon and I have wheels again! No harm, no foul, eh?