Snow sputters
down, down like always
as I trek
to the Buick Century
grandma left me.
Its roof is dirty
and now some
asshole's brushed black paint
on the bumper; I didn't recognize
the car when the girl and I
saw it.
Never cared about my car's
aesthetics; she didn't need to look good
to function.
Having my car start
after a long day is the
best:
better than payday,
a good book
or climaxing.
I used to walk when it
snowed,
now I drive.
