Red with
egg beater engine
pulling chrome
and rust over
hills.
You are a
seeing-eye car
in dangerous,
blinding traffic.

"Sure-tired," you
caress tar and
patches of sand with
a grace that bespeaks
a maturity
beyond your fenders
(which keep falling off
on country roads)

Gas fumes, like old
sour breath
curl around plastic
black seats
making our eyes boil over
with tears
unasked for,
unearned.