He used to hum and humbly drone
and embrace the road
who would slip beneath him
as fast or slow as he pleased.
But now the scratches and dents
on his side panels scar his paint,
and the rust repaints the places
where the dark brown has chipped off
into the knee-high grass around him.
Years ago, he was a traveler,
roaming the Montana roads and Colorado peaks,
back when he'd make sure to stop
on the crest of a butte at evening
with whomever was driving him at the time
to watch the retiring sun
spill across the cool Wyoming hills.
He doesn't travel anymore.
The air has gone from his tires,
and the ruts where his tires rest
in the Iowa dirt comfort him,
and sparrows nest
in the cushions of his back seat
as he waits for the sun to set
on him.