I do not trust this bucket of bones body,
Ramshackle, jury-rigged, clanging as it rumbles,
puttering farts pumping air bubbles through awkward piping
angles that don't quite close,
lines not quite straight,
all put together half-assed,
one mistake covering another.
I do not like driving it through my day-to-day
or on long trips far out of help's reach
relying on it like a child on a driving drunk
probably being fine.
A friend of mine said, "A man will drive himself mad
listening to the sounds a car makes,"
And so for years I chose not to listen at all,
washing my ears squeaky clean in decibel waters,
letting irregular heartbeats and phantom lumps live like dings I never noticed.
But the beating swelled from beneath the gas pedal,

Overcame the tumult as if to yank a tow chain named for my children
And I woke again, attuned to the whole chattering lot.
I can't help but give ear to every hum and interference,
squealing and crack of corner-bones on my aluminum can frame,
the slow glug of oil through my veins that probably means nothing
until it doesn't.
I can't ignore the certain knowledge that my innards are rusting, waiting to err,
that one day without question they will crumble and bottom out like viscera.
I can't be the dilapidated pile on the highway curb, ragless window, rotting
while my loves walk unsheltered,
for damage fast eroding,
jalopies themselves.
Written by hgnichols (Harry Nichols)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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