Todd Mercer
Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand
High
miles,
little
maintenance.
When the wheels fall off,
long walk to civilization.
Admit it, you loved it even more when rust set in.
It was yours exclusively, once it took a jump and a screwdriver to start.
It burns stray voltage and faith discredited by science,
a fool's trust that it would start
one more time, once more.
Junkyard dodge,
borrowed
year.
Crank.
