that you found yourself seat-belted in
like some little red Radio Flyer
that night you came-to in the OB ward...
this body you bombed around the
planet in like some high-octane
babe-magnet Triumph SR3 fueled
on the endless river of hormones
running through it, all piss and
vinegar and adrenaline... this body
that lusted for all those other sweet young
candy-apple-cute showroom models
cruising the strip all chromed up?
This body you’re stuck in now?
with the snowball’s chance in hell of getting
one more inspection sticker? that you kick
yourself for not having had serviced more regularly?
this body no silver-tongued used-car
dealer could foist on anything loftier
than the local parts-salvage junkyard?
This body being towed at the end of your parade?
it’s waxing you philosophical, am I right?
helping you work on letting go, on sitting
back and just enjoying the scenery of all
that mileage disappearing like some Triple-A
travelogue slide-show-in-reverse in the
rearview mirror... leaving you lost in your
Lake Wobegon dealership dreams…
where all the models are good lookin’...
and all the warranties above average…