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

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