Old Red Farm Truck

If I were the old red

farm truck

I’d rust gracefully,

warm myself

in the sun

no matter

who was looking

or not looking.

I’d rumble through town

turning heads and

causing

classy kinds

to sputter,

gape and guffaw

at my sheer lack

of gloss.

I’d smell like tobacco,

oranges,

and tar—

even on Saturday nights

when I’d

idle slowly,

taking up more space

than they’d think

I ought to have,

and park

at the old drive-in

with Coke and popcorn

stuck to my seat

while somebody

kisses somebody else

for the first time,

forever.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For Poetry Jam:  If I Were