how many heartbreaks spilled across the front bench seat
how many awkward sweating attempts at love
Saturday night whiskey breath dirt roads
driving faster than the headlights
skirt tucked between her legs hair spilling from under a ball-cap she winks
he jams third gear on the column
clutch gas and a skinny steering wheel
already making up an excuse for coming home late
there’s no blues written for the Bronco
no hell only eternity slipping out the passenger door
beer and independence
neon cursive parking lot mix of blue-collar carbuerators and perfume
but mostly nervous glances
and the Stones’ Let’s spend the night together
unfiltered Lucky Strikes for good measure
utility’s muscled middle finger to pinstripe pink-slip hot shots tethered to blacktop
watching their girl now bounce over the hill in a cloud of dust and lust
kicking stones into windshields for good measure
there’s no blues written for the Bronco
no hell only an empty gas can and a long walk
dashboard glow
static rock-and-roll radio disc jockey swagger
hippies already revolutioning
and a Vietnam death in every town no one sees coming
pawing field grass for lug nuts the spare hanging cock-eyed
lightning bugs’ morse code in the heavy summer dark
fist-fights slammed doors adjusted mirrors bloody teeth
an eye he’ll have to explain to mom over breakfast
there’s no blues written for the Bronco
no hell only small town boredom
summer’s unrequited powder-keg
slow-burn sun-tanned angst
hubs locked and headed straight for a dare
today’s classic is yesterday’s quarter tip for a piece of apple pie
leaded gasoline
an eleven-gallon dream
drive like there is no tomorrow
because there is no tomorrow
there’s no blues written for the Bronco
no hell only the idled engine of youth
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