The last ride of the Death Machine, or an ode to an old horse about to be turned into gelatin.

I'd left the old blue bombshell
at the dealership the night before
when the salesman suggested I take
the new truck home then and there.
(It didn't take much convincing, mind you.)
Three-and-a-half faithful years
from a thirteen-year-old-car
with over two hundred thousand miles on it
(the salesman laughed when I asked
what the trade-in value would be)
purchased for a measly seven hundred bucks;
she served her purpose dutifully
getting me to and from work
to and from women
to and from and to and from
and never with a Dewey.
I owed her one last romp in the sack
and I gave it to her the day after buying
my new vehicle when my roommate drove
me back down to the dealership to pick her up.

Hitting ninety-five on eighty-seven
with no brakes left to speak of
and no front directionals
no air conditioning and the power everything
failing miserably felt good.
I smelled smoke and questioned if it was coming
from my car, but didn't care much
since the donation people would still give me
the thousand-dollar tax write-off.
Weaving in and out of traffic, breaking the pistons
in again, letting the legs pound the track one last time
passing people who didn't and wouldn't understand
if I tried to tell them.
Then there was the one guy waving his hands
in true Italian fashion at his kid in the backseat, turning
his head to yell every few seconds--
part of me wanted to ram his rear bumper
but I didn't, and with my left foot pressed hard
against the floor I sped by that guy, eyes in the rear-view
to make sure there weren't any Stateys catching up to me.

I made it to the Newburgh exit in one piece
with the stereo cranked to sixty
and no carbon left in the cylinders.
I gave her what was due, alright;
rode her hard, like that last fuck with a girl
you know you'll never see again
to both of your advantages.
And when I called my buddy to come drink that night
I heard exactly what I didn't miss in the background;
like the car, I was glad I'd made
the decision to donate.
It's someone else's headache now.