Nobody would be likely to steal my old Chevy truck, I guess.

Unless they were a fucking idiot. Which is quite possible around here.

Smashed, dented, broken, and leaking everywhere.

It is impossible to start, and even more difficult to keep running.

Unless you know the combination of moves required.

To make the ancient smoking motor roar and growl.

Sure as hell not something they teach you in school.

You learn it all the hard way, by doing it yourself.

People frown on that sort of thing today.

Claiming how unsafe old vehicles are…

“No daytime running lights? No anti-lock brakes?

No airbags? No low tire pressure light?

Call the police, the governor, the president!”

Not trusting what they don’t understand

Modern life is built on fear of everything

From bug bites to flat tires, old cars and grease fires

Then you have the ridiculous new cars and trucks…

With safety features galore, and cup holders

Up the wazoo, along with back up cameras, DVD

Players, speed sensors, and cars that park themselves

Hell, there’s probably a sensor that knows when you fart

So it can roll down the windows and crank the AC

But, it’s all just a flashy, computerized trap

You can talk to your Aunt Mabel in Ohio

Just speak clearly into your dashboard, and

 

You can hear all about the boils on Uncle Carl’s ass

While you laugh, and then crash… fatally

Into a huge gravel truck that didn’t even feel you

Mashing yourself and the family into

bloody pulp on his bumper, or better yet,

shaving the roof off your robotic, hypnotic,

super safety machine, along with your heads

While Aunt Mabel drones on about corn prices

Your car will call the police so that they can

Come scrape what’s left of you and your

Technologically advanced family

Off of route 49 because you got fooled

Meanwhile a drunk guy in an old truck

Backs into a telephone pole, maybe even

Knocks it down then laughs and

Drives away without a scratch.

 

 

Currently living behind an abandoned Kmart in the flood damaged industrial city of Endicott, NY, Brian James Lewis has been writing gritty, reality based poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction for over twenty years. His many influences include Joyce Carol Oates, Richard Matheson, The Reverend Horton Heat, Jack Kerouac, and Madison Smartt-Bell. Brian types his first drafts on vintage typewriters that he restores into active duty while leaving the dents and scratches alone, because they look the best that way. Even though Brian lives for writing, reading, and music, the most important things in his life are the love and support of his wife, Michelle. He has many short stories and poems available for publication, and is currently at work on a novel about a serial killer.