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Poem

Our old Plymouth wagon sits junked in the yard
Collecting pine needles and rust
Ten years of abuse and driven too hard
Now an eyesore, the neighbors might fuss

Chrysler Corporation was not at their best
Before Iacocca, I think
"Car lot got flooded but we did a road test."
The salesman said with a wink

A knock on the door, 'Wanna' sell that ole wreck?
I live down 'ar  right crost the creek'
"How much?" 'Thirty bucks!' "Okay, what the heck?"
(He stuffs some more Skoal in his cheek)

"Whatcha' do with 'em?" I ask. 'Crush 'em!' He hacks
And spats on a flat balding tire
'Front 'uns look good, we'll haul 'er from the back
Now what did I do with my pliers?"

'Anything in 'ar you might wanna' keep?'
(The door handle sticky with sap)
A moldy child's baseball glove on the back seat
And a faded old little league cap

Slowly the wrecker-hearse jacks up the rear
It snaps and it groans in protest
"Thirty pieces, that's all? Please let me stay here
I'm tired and I just need to rest"

(It's backwards I tell you, something's not right
With the way that old car's being towed
So lonesome it looks, its hazy headlights
Staring sadly down at the road)

N/A in contest 'Pick a Title' judged on 11/13/2014

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