Whore

(Spoken in the voice of a refurbished 1947 Mercury coupe.)

God. This screaming paint, these flames,
this overbored V-8

that's much, much too rich
for my aging pipes. I miss

my Mary, who was widowed in the war,
and took me off the showroom floor

to be her transportation. She was a milliner
with birdlike bones

who swept my mats
religiously. Her boys were rough,

but they were boys, and grew into
young men who mated early,

often on the vinyl of my seats.
She died, 2004,

and I wish I could have died, as a dog would have,
curled at her feet,

but, dammit, I am Pittsburgh steel
and Detroit hammer,

cursed machine and, so, cannot.
What can I be, apparently, is prostitute

in my dotage, made to wear
the bright and uncomfortable motley

of teenage years for people
I never wanted to know.

Survivor Poetry Contest
Trigger 18, Poet's Choice (Free Verse)