Thanks for reading my silly alliterative poem entitled "Why We Walk". 6 lines, in alphabetical order, narrating the horrors, both social and physical, of riding in the narrator's father's clunker of a car.
Alternatively, against anemically azure automobiles, abide afoot.
Before bitter brume bows Birmingham's blooming branches.
Criticized, castigated, contrarily can't consider
Dad's dimly-dyed Dodge dreadnaught.
Eyesore, every exterior element.
Fascia flaps freely from front fenders.
Horrible highway handling.
It's illegal in interstate influx. Indeed, Iowa issued injunctions.
Jimmys jakebrake. Jams jell.
Kids... kids kid,
Mom, meanwhile, makes me mind maps midway,
never noticing nobody needs neighborhood navigation
over our own
protected paved paradigms.
Quaking, questioning quietly
remaining respites: restaurants, roadside restrooms.
Sundry sudden screeching stops stir stomach sickness.
Then, the total taboo - the too