The Red Car

At the picnic table.

Old photos spread out.

My sister pointed.

Said, 'Look. Our little pet project.'

It was me.

In the yard.

Holding a small red car.

Missing a wheel.

They’d arrange me.

Put me where they wanted.

A prop.

A thing to manage.

They dressed me up.

And showed me off.

Like a prize.

Not quite real.

This small car.

This small me.

Always somewhere.

They put me.