It was a sham but I believed it.
A false memory as it were but I’m not quite sure.
I was seated in a baby seat in the back row of my father’s car.
A black sedan caddie wannabe Buick I think it was––
though the detail of its name I can’t remember.
I was with my family––we were on the highway.
My little brother was not born yet. But he may have been––
it’s possible I was that old.
We approached an underpass in heavy slugging traffic.
It was a public car wash on the highway in my estimation.
I saw the machine within the underpass as we went through it.
Distinctly do I remember seeing advanced gearwork and loads of machinery––
lots of red, green, and yellow metal gear plates.
Giant mops lowered down and kissed the windows of my father’s car.
Suds enveloped the car, then water jets washed it clean, then air blew it dry.
We then exited the underpass and we went on our way.
This never happened––I’d imagined it all.
Perhaps it was a dream that I somehow misfiled as a valid memory:
my personal theory on the genesis of false memories, (but I really don’t know shit.)
I was maybe 2 or 3 years old.

#poetry #art #psychology