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