The radio is hobbled in this mottled blue truck with its touches of cancerous rust,
the antenna a broken stub,
but the truck sings a 200,000 mile tune. Between muffler sputters and engine knocks,
who needs Elvis or Sheryl Crow?
The tires' rhythmic thrumming, the periodic squeak, keep us humming into the night.
Lying in bed at the hilltop,
we wonder who waits for the stars to burn out? The fuel gauge shows empty,
it always does,
and the odometer is unreliable. On the way home you start to worry
about how much farther we can go.
:: Gregory Stapp, in qaartsiluni
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