In the fractured amber domelight glow,

The committee gray injection molded dash

Has a beauty for a moment, despite its stains.

Its curves generous, scratches characterful,

UV-faded polymer noble, in its way.

Speaking history, whispering future.

The salt nibbled fenders, oxide-flecked and brittle

Say nothing of what’s under the hood,

Which is in fact a gasping in-line four

Sucking inhaler hits of 89 octane

Keeping the whole wheezing affair in motion.

Self-consuming, ever forward.

Saggy seats, saggy springs,

Saggy roof, saggy shocks,

A drooping, duct tape bandaged bumper,

The brake pedal judders with concerning arrhythmia

Iridescent puddles are for ignoring

How does one even check an engine?

Jalopy years

A beater life

Hoopty reality

And yet…and yet…

If it’s not raining and if you twiddle the knobs like only you can,

The radio works sometimes.

If you grip the wheel tight in both hands and if you really put your weight to it,

You can steer a bit.