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.