The old Dodge Dart, age '74, creamy
                          and tattered in places, driving
                          55 on the Interstate, proud in that right lane,
                          defiant yet soft and pliant
                          to my hands and eyes, rumbles
                          one cylinder short toward
                          its new classy home:
                          behind the Subaru showroom.

                          It's not abandonment, really.
                          Not quite.  It's putting to pasture,
                          hoping there's heaven somewhere
                          for good, reliable (if stodgy) cars,
                          motors with quirks, curses, personalities

                          That take on time-dispelling colors
                          of family quarrels in the back seat, trips
                          mistakenly taken, sacred dents telling all now
                          in some country junkyard.

                          Sleeping, I suppose.
                          Gossiping about the good old days.
                          Telling layered narratives with
                          inset stories within inset stories
                          and abrupt tense shifts
                          without proper transitions.

                          Definitely in need of some editing.

                          But one prefers to think the old war-horse
                          has begun a new clandestine, torrid existence:
                          beneath the hands of a mad teenager, hair
                          long and the tightest jeans that can
                          plot the tangled routes of young arteries.

                          Racing around, scared out of its wits
                          and just ahead of the local police.

                          It's only life.  We all die and go
                          to heaven (don't we?), where we finally
                          get a new cruise control and power
                          locks, retractable antenna, everything
                          comfortable, adjustable to fit that sagging
                          old age that longs for the fit of the

                          First jeans in the first car,
                          cruising, picking up life
                          and knowing, by damn,
                          this is a racy, bucket-seat world

                          That lasts as long as the next
                          big thrill, and then some.

                          Rust in peace.

                                                                                   --David Radavich



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