grime on my bumper, and so what.
it’s not like it hides a beautiful body.
enough rust and holes
to make next inspection a worry.
enough grunts and clicks and creaks
to make driving anywhere a symphony.
it still runs well enough
to make me mostly unafraid to go anywhere.
it’s got lots of room and red sass to spare.
above all it’s got a banging sound system.
sometimes I joke and say I’m going out
to drive the stereo around my city.
it’s no joke to do it the way I do it, though.
they hear me coming long before they see me.
in dead of winter I crack a window
to let the big noise out for passers-by.
in height of summer I open it all up
and let it rip for everyone to hear.
there’s an occasional strange glance
from a car or a walker when I pass.
it’s not pretty, and neither am I.
gray on my head, grime on my bumper,
holes where no holes should be;
two hundred and forty thousand miles
of rattle, squeak, bomb-bay bass and
shouting along to blood passion songs.
it’s not like I can hide in a beautiful body
so I might as well turn up and show up,
for as long as I can, for as long
as the rust holds together.