“Two generations of Americans knew more about the Ford coil than the clitoris, about the planetary system of gears than the stars”

-Cannery Row

All-steel body,
                nickeled radiator,
& deeply cushioned seats –
                You had a streamline effect.
The way your rotary lifted us
                necessitated double ventilation,
artificial lungs pushing
                the toxic away.
Your Windsor Maroon & Channel Green
                reached for a planetary system
as if gears could ever be cosmic.
                We hopped in for the touring
& behind your silk curtains
                we proved rims are
mountable –
                This was the push of your throttle,
a gear shift supplying an alternat-
                ing current to our spark plugs,
whether you noticed, or not, whether
                your grill ever found any lips
or not.
                We wanted to pretend, tin
Lizzie, you weren’t mass
                produced. That you weren’t
some assembly line runabout
                with interchangeable parts,
we wanted to pretend
                we wouldn’t be fiber
glass to your steel,
                pretend the ride would propel
us both forward on the same high
                way, but you slammed
on the brakes, left us
                in your rearview
& picked up a new passenger.
                Was I a placeholder?
Standard equipment you wanted to upgrade?
                Time isn’t factored into the total
cost & fuck, we weren’t
                transactional. We saw the glow
of your headlights, a singular
                universal joint.
                When you ignite the dash light
the space we occupied is bare –
                If only you felt
our aftermarket value,
                the way you stare
up into the black tarp
                of night & know
the stars aren’t welded together
                on a belt by men
but are collisions
                of particles untouchable,
irreplicable, white-hot
                moments always already
burned.