You can't take it with you, but you should sure try.

There it is in perfect form:
a man's pride and joy
left to rust in his widow's driveway.
The metallic brown landship
of the larger-than-life Sixties variety
complete with fins and contours
lit up with bells and whistles
lays in wait for a turn of the ignition
that isn't ever coming.
A multitude of twigs and leaves
cover its hood and trunk.
The left rear tire is slowly going flat.
It's a slow death that's hard to watch
from the window of my ivory tower.

My neighbor's been dead for a good
four months. His wife's sold or given
away most of his belongings
though I feel it's been more to get rid of him
and the memory of their loveless marriage
than for any other reason. But this--
this travesty, a final slap in the face
to a buried corpse unable to defend himself--
this is more disrespect than the deceased
should ever bear. I wish she'd sell the thing already.

Something tells me that car
was the only thing he loved
at the end.
She must know that.