The Write Stuff (The Writing Thread)

[Whistle]

Another Creative Writing poem, this time a little darker.

Monuments (tw: discussion of death)

Brick sand caked onto the windshield,
The wipers unable to dust away.
She spattered. Fumed. Whimpered.
After fifty long years
Since Pop-Pop won her in a race down Tilghman Street,
Tricked out ever since in the same well-worn brushed bronze skin,
Copperhead Jean's reached the end of her road.
Hammered now.
Glued to the Utah pavement.
But the Monuments have ordered the sand to clear.
It's okay, Pop-Pop.
I can scatter you among them myself.