At The Car Wash

I brought my own lunch today but I was also falling asleep so I decided to get out of the office and get my truck washed since it was still wearing its winter coat of dirt.  I was sitting outside, enjoying the weather and waiting for my truck to get out of the bath when my (relative) peace was interrupted by a horrible screaming child.  I looked in the direction of the noise and saw that it was coming from a baby in a stroller.  The stroller was being pushed by an equally horrible woman, who was screaming at her child to shut the fuck up and quit being such a crybaby.  Yes, really.  Her other four children were amusing themselves in the fountain that said to keep out of the water.

It’s been so long since I’ve worked in retail that I’d honestly forgotten it was possible for people to be almost poetic in their trashiness.

In the past I’d have pointed out that her baby is being a fucking crybaby because it’s a fucking baby, and then fantasized about all of them being swallowed by the earth.  Today, I just shook my head and stared at the ground and wondered how we made it to the moon without setting ourselves on fire.

Then my truck arrived all clean and sexy and looking good enough to fuck clean, it was clean.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.