The Old Jalopy

On a farm in a community of drudgery and toil lived a man alone He had lost so much in his life and had so little to show For the multitude of years, sweat and love that honed his bones It left him with a life that filled him with weariness and woe His hands were worn and spoke of diligence and conflicted dedication His back was bent with the gravity of time and travail He stooped as he walked with the shame of his frustration He gave up and gave in to time in his hellish self-made jail The only object of his affection was misspent and terrifyingly grim An old jalopy that brought back the memory that broke his soul and did him in It was rusted and bent, dented and spent, hollow and sunken-in The pockmarked paint was covered with years of cobweb phantoms Every night exactly at nine o'clock his fragile mind would coax him Out to the barn where the ghostly car sat abashed Waiting once more for his rendezvous within To tell his nightmare relived and retold when his world tumbled and crashed He opened the door as it creaked and popped And into the seat he plopped down like before His hands on the wheel, his foot on the brake frantically trying to stop His breath reigning terror and screaming to a roar Then quietly he bowed his head as tears would prevail Washing away the memory that killed his entire family And left him alone in a loveless home that was his jail Living with his guilt and unbearable misery July 21, 2019