1966:

Red, fierce, sharp,

meant to quench a lust for

motion unimpeded

out on the

open road.

Her front light

just on the left half

folds into the engine

and her wheel through the seat.

1988:

Beat up,

a gross, tan shade

that looks less like paint and

more the aftermath of

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many drunken nights

behind him.

Moved on to better things.

Something farther from

the amber glasses

and the stench that

kept him from counting.

1956:

A classic,

something obviously

handed down.

On the front mirror hangs

a pair of unremarkable dice

barely scathed by the

single point of impact

through the front window.

Red specs and

small, palm-sized

dents

leave marks on the door

that spoke of heres and thens

no more.

1929:

Nobody remembers

when she took the throne

perched above the rest

not unlike a vulture

eyeing a feast.

Their frames packed

loads more than she

in her prime.

Yet,

all the same,

they turn up here.

Better each

passing year,

yet all the same,

they wound up

here