the maroon camaro

the memory
of that rusted car.
its
baby moons,
and torn seats,
the eight cylinders
of which only
five seemed to working.
the billow
of black smoke,
the belch of
white smoke,
the smell of engine
oil, the puddles
of its
fluids
always leaving a
trail.
but what a car
it was. your car.
the car you washed
on Saturday morning,
waxed it to a shiny
sheen.
the car
you drove to be
seen in, perfect
as it sat under
the bright parking
lot lights
at the hot shoppes,
the radio
playing.