Whoever owned this ‘54 Chevy sedan
must not have been a mechanic
or a conjurer who could raise machinery
from the dead. Instead, too cheap
to have it towed, the car rests
in a traffic of weeds.
Seed tufts poke through the grill
like steam issuing from an overheated radiator.
Plum trees blossoming form clouds of exhaust,
while a blackberry vine, a policeman, taps
at the driver’s window.
On clear summer nights,
under the bright headlight of the moon,
crickets hum a well tuned engine.
The Chevrolet appears to be speeding through
the soft blue landscape into tomorrow—
rushing into the future
of its own slow decay.
This poem first appeared in Pedestal Magazine.
Used here with the author's permission.