Chevy, vintage 1953.
Only slightly younger than me
When I turned sixteen and
Started to drive, fresh with the
Freedom of being alive.
Yellow and white as I recall,
Slow to start, but
Quick to stall.
Automatic transmission they say,
When the gears didn’t slip.
She had her own way.
Often in need of a push
Or a jump.
More often than not
A pain in my rump.
No money to spend
Except to buy gas.
Repairs were a luxury taken to task.
Driveway decoration
-Belle of the ball -
A tastier memory I can’t recall.
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