Ode to the Rusted Out Ford on Bourbon

She ain't moved in years,

but the tires still dream of open roads.

Sun-faded paint peels like dead skin,

a junkyard queen in exile.

Someone left a cassette in the tape deck,

Black Sabbath’s music trapped in time,

singing about war pigs that we never understood.

I ran my fingers over the cracked leather seat,

and for a second,

I swore I heard the engine whisper:

"We could’ve gone anywhere, kid."