That Old Car

I see you rolling up to the stop sign and I know
You should be retired by now,
probably poor or frugally delusional and desperate.
Your paint fades in records of weather maps
past decades and slight mishaps
blind spots and small garages.
You lean to the side from years of single driving
Groceries, Bible study and church.
Maybe a birthday party or wedding
making you wish you were young and bothered.
The dent on your front passenger quarter
Those sneaky little parking posts that are too damn small to see.
Still, clean as hospital room inside and out
And not many miles for a gal of your age.

Maybe you are one last gift
passed on by others who were first in line
or one more attempt to help that screwed-up son-of-a-bitch
get his life out of the ditch and headed in the right direction.
First night together left you with a cracked grill
and that feeling that you'd never stop shaking every time you moved.
No good mechanics left in a town that lost its churches and bar.
Roll around the country roads getting high
Thinking of your Grandmother and avoiding highways,
looking for someone to love or punish.