MGB

MGB                                   Mine was red of a kind                                    burnt orange by the sun, each day paler                                     than the day before.                                    No one’s turned over on demand. There was no reason,no predicting. May afternoons,
left at the Wash N’ Fold, past Cow Shit Corner,  where the manure was warmed, mixed by late-morning,  with the ocean air. Or right,down Maine Street, past the fishermen who were drunk by noon, refusing
to shift from second to third for fear of losing the familiar hold-back rumble between acceleration and exhale, past the girls at Frosty’s, across the bridge by the mill, not yet 4, the time when the factories let out,when the weekend began
in earnest, and everything worth waiting for was just ahead,around the bend,within cruising range,the alluring paleness of the sky so whiteyou could almost feelthe night, moonriseover the growing fields
and farms with their junk yards of discarded dream vehicles in barns and culverts, behind the house graduate shadows removing color from the impossible finish.                                            --Bruce Willard