Curbed at the gutter, she has turned from silver to grey.
My once fetching sedan is now half-rusted shut.
Her undercarriage is incontinent and pisses slicks in front of my house.
Fuses wrapped in foil hum their disconnect.
Meters flicker as red lines pin left then right.
Dim lamps scarcely light the roadways that absorb my jalopy‘s leakings.
Stubborn stick shift and corroded clutch gnash their teeth.
Threadbare cow print seat covers sit beneath the tree hanging from the mirror.
Perfumed cardboard can’t hide the stench of years and gasoline.
My kids beg to be driven to school in my wife’s car.
She is my mule, will be leaving soon, and owes me nothing.
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