Unborn, I Drove
Ian McBryde

Unborn, I drove beneath Marilyn Monroe.
The sky had whitened. She was leaning over
the railing, high above a New York street,
elbows on the balcony, inevitable cigarette
in her fingers. She didn't wave. The anonymous
Ford my mother owned continued up Canal Street
in black and white, turned left, was gone.

marilyn canal st