Poetry is heart language. Nothing about life is beyond the romance of verse. Sometimes it gushes, other times trickles, but it all comes from the center of our emotions. Poetry is meant to be read aloud, even in whispers. Read it slowly, naturally, as you would a letter from home. I hope my work both charms and disturbs you. But mostly, I hope you see some of yourself in these reflections of my soul. ~ James M. Woods
Eventually it'll throw a rod.
The transmission will grind to quit.
A head gasket will blow.
The tires are bald.
Suspension's sagging; mufflers shot.
The interior's gone to hell....
filthy and torn.
Nothing left, but the rust that holds it together.
It's a CARcass.
Handsome once. Elegant, even. Bright. Gleaming.
That was then. This is now.
It's a hulk. A junk.
Yeah.................and the car's in bad shape too.
Posted by The Dashboard Poet at Sunday, July 31, 2022
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