a red car sits, on Hart street

hood adorned with orange tickets 

some wet and soggy, 

others dried with wrinkled edges

The right-hand mirror cracked 

rests precariously between window and hood, 

wires exposed, dangle 

black frayed tail.

Three Star Wars Jedi and Chewbacca, 

stare out ready to protect 

the hunk of junk—

no Millennium Falcon.

Opened party packs of spiked seltzer 

splayed over the rear seats 

grapefruit flavor.

Coexist sticker slapped across the bumper, 

peels at the corners like Seth, the owner, 

a blonde surfer fresh off Santa Cruz culture,

back from Costa Rica,

a retired pot dealer now working in tech.

The car that blocks prime parking 

across the street from my apartment

glares at me all winter.

No one from the city will tow it.

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