POETRY
The Broken-Down Ford Mustang
We sat in the front seat, both of us drunk on cheap whiskey
Sam Jones loved words and the broken-down Ford Mustang
he inherited from his father. We worked under the hood
on the weekends, but ended up sitting in the front seat,
drinking cheap whiskey.
He gripped the wheel and recited his poetry
until the tears came. He never could repair
his relationship with his dead father.
All those years, rusted away like metal.
His grief tangled in bitter memories.
I heard he sold the car for chump change
when he moved to Dallas.
Last time I saw him, he was hunched over a drink
in Fort Worth and couldn’t be swayed by words,
told me to leave him alone. The bartender shrugged
and poured me a free shot. There were too many echoes
for me, the times I tried to drown myself in the bottle.
Sam and I went back a long way, college days.
We used to stumble across the campus,
picking up cigarette butts to smoke
and howling rhythms and…
