the yellow mg

his mg,
bug yellow,
was often at the end
of a tow trucks hook,
being pulled
off a highway, or back
road to any garage
that could work
on such a beast.
he was tall, so he folded
himself into
the leather seats
to shift and speed
along, a cap upon his
head, the wind
buffering against
the sides of the tight
british boat.
the top always down.
it was always a gamble
taking a ride.
you knew it was going
to be short,
not sweet and that you'd
be walking
and walking at some
point when once again
the engine died.