the color of deep mountain skies
that always rose from the dead,
like Krishna, or a phoenix from its own ashes,
overcoming great mechanical odds,
from a stuck starter, to cranky carburetors
to broken ball joints & missing catalytic converters.
It kept me on my mechanical toes,
praying it would not die in traffic,
and cursing it whenever it did,
until a runaway dumpster took it out.
That was the final insult.
I needed a crowbar to open the door.
Damned if the truck didn’t fire up, raring to go.
But I had to let it go. Its wings were clipped for good.
No rising up from the grave this time.
3/9 &11/23 this came from a prose piece,
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