I still feel her soul,
though her rusted bones
have rooted in the ground.

She made some man’s eyes sparkle with pride,
as he buffed her body to a shine
clear as glass.

He’d spend stolen moments and Saturdays,
preening and pampering–she was treated better than his women.
He could only be loyal to one.

He’d cruise along Main Street on Saturday nights,
showing off his prize, the other guys, jealous–
their old jalopies couldn’t measure up.

He’d bring his dates to the bluffs,
for make-out romps on the spring-weary back seat.
The leather held memories–a faint scent of perfume and musk.

The old gal finally gave out,
and she sat in the field–still, stoic,
until neighborhood boys smashed her windows.

Vulnerable, Mother Nature ravaged her.
First stray cats found shelter,
then mice moved in for the winter.

They don’t make cars like that anymore:
bones of steel, guts of metal.
The old dame had class.

With this photograph, her spirit
lives on.


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