Downtown in the alley
behind a low brick building;
how long has she rested here?

The body is sun-washed to powder blue.
Dead bees lie on the dash, wood panels curl away
from the instruments, rust speckles the chrome,
and the Union Jack near the fender fades.
The seats are crackled and dirty foam spills through
and the tires have collapsed in the gravel.
You think through the shift pattern on the knob.

Open the creaking door and out pours
the odor of metal and plastic and oil and ruin
and the ache of promise and loss mixes and fills you.

It is your presence, always inside looking out.
The way you run your finger across the hood
and it becomes grimed, so you spit on it and rub the pavement;
sand off a few cells, some filth, and somehow feel satisfied.

08/08/2011

Author's Note: Long live British Leyland!

Posted on 08/08/2011
Copyright © 2026 David Hill