Jalopy

Another day older, covered in rust.

Because of the miles, they don’t give me fuss.

Cushions inside are ripped and threadbare.

Dogs chewed on my wheel, but they didn’t care.

Even my dash is weathered weak from the sun.

Faster and further, how far can I run?

Gas keeps me turning, but for how much longer?

Hood’s up for new oil, still I’m no stronger.

I wait for the key to no longer bring me to life,

Jalopies like me are hard to come by.

Kindred spirits in age and tires worn down,

listless in drive, quite ready to drown.

My engine is dying, and I’m alone on the street.

No one to talk to, just the damn sun with its heat.

Others get garages or ports, even shade.

Poor me, helpless only to watch how much more I will fade.

Quietly others drive past with derision and pride,

road warriors racing, just hitting their stride.

Surely, they know their time, too, will come.

Tomorrow brings newness so the old must succumb,

unless we’ve peaked in man’s love affair with machines,

values undone by the valleys grown green.

What will become of my parts and my mind?

Xanthic from rot, no steel left to bind.

Yet I, more than most, know every journey must end.

Zooming toward that last road’s one final bend.