Bummer

Gone, like summer wages,
the wife, to New York,
she left things behind:
a husband, a car
that turned out
to be the perfect metaphor
for the dearly departed:
well preserved
beauty of an
’88 BMW convertible,
but incredibly neurotic
to the point where its
antitheft alarm sounded
repeatedly
from the garage
for no apparent reason,
often waking me and all
the neighbors
and always requiring
an immediate response,
drop everything,
then a furious dash
often through rain
with flathead screwdriver
kept by the front door,
(the hood latch was broken),
I could only reach
the engine compartment
through a tiny port
hidden in the grill,
while decibels
in united millions
screamed in my ear.
Quarter turn clockwise,
pop the hood,
then detach the battery
and suddenly silence,
like thunder, reverberating.
Now, tell me all about it...
Another bad dream?