Roger Singer

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.