A Grand Old Story
There’s a rusty car
In a dump by the city.
Others say it’s rot,
But I think it’s kind of pretty.
It might help to know its story,
If there were ever legs beneath the wheel
Pushing on that skinny pedal,
Maybe propping up their heel
On the dashboard while they cruised
And pondered about life.
Perhaps the backseat saw some action
With a young and hopeful wife.
Were there children?
Did the windows get rolled down
And tiny hands make airplanes
As they speeded through the town?
I wonder how it got here,
And came to be so lonely.
It must have a grand old story.
I wish I knew it; if only.