I got that 56 Chevy painted
black and yellow, like a bumble bee
pressed into metal with tires stinging
roads and fires in the engine
spitting out flames. I cut the air
into pieces, passing everyone
sightseeing and slow.
I got lucky fuzzed dice twirling
in tight corners, fighting the gravity
as that girl slides ever so close to me.
There’s a place I go with a jukebox and
crummy food. Truckers call it home
while strangers drink beer and ask for a ride.
I’m on a six day holiday every week,
with Sunday reserved for wax and
a special clean cloth.