Driving

It’s the biweekly Terrible Poetry Contest hosted by Chel Owens. Matt won the last round and so had the honor of picking this week’s prompt. This week we’ll write on the Theme of bad driving, free-verse style. The goal: make it terrible.

Driving

For, I say; fore.
Out of my way for I am a bad driver.
Four violent torso twists, the club a blur of polished wood, and the ball barely moves

but my back hurts.
For what it’s worth –

to toot my own horn –

I’ll say that I’m not bad with
irons,
or putters,
but drivers,

I am a bad driver.

Drivers are the chink in my Armour bologna Cracker Crunchers
lunch with a Butterfinger candy bar fun size dessert armor.

I ate at an Italian restaurant, name now forgotten, and I was so taken with the bombolotti, that squat little powerhouse noodle that expertly trapped the slightly sweet sauce and diced onion and, I think?

Parmigiano or pecorina cheese as a culinary captive to caress my …

my…

no provincialism here: my slobbering mouth. So I had to

compliment the chef directly.

I drove myself, chest first, proudly displaying my all’Amatriciana sauce stained shiny Sahara sand satin shirt to the kitchen,

but,

before
I
could
say anything:

The chef, garbed in his winter jacket,

for it was
winter whence
we
met, met
me
at the door and said:

“I cannot unlock my car door”.

I, taken aback, said: “Why not?”

He said, “I have gnocchi.”

I drove him home. I only exceeded the speed limit once,
very briefly,
to make a light.