by Earl J. Wilcox
The tiny auto clatters through our neighborhood, sputtering,
chugging, and rattling like a one-man band having a bad day.
White paint pepped up with brave blues and radical reds, this
car carries medical supplies for invalids. In the 60s when the
first Beetles swept in like a plague of pretty lady bugs or chic
cicadas, they were hailed as harbingers of the age of Aquarius.
Across the street today, the bug from yesteryear brings meds
for a friend who long ago forgot he was the leader of a band.
Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
