MGB

MGB

                                   Mine was red of a kind

                                    burnt orange by the sun,

each day paler

                                    than the day before.

                                    No one’s turned over

on demand.

There was no reason,

no predicting. May afternoons,

left at the Wash N’ Fold,

past Cow Shit Corner, 

where the manure was warmed,

mixed by late-morning, 

with the ocean air. Or right,

down Maine Street,

past the fishermen who were drunk

by noon, refusing

to shift from second to third

for fear of losing the familiar

hold-back rumble between

acceleration and exhale,

past the girls at Frosty’s,

across the bridge by the mill,

not yet 4, the time when the factories let out,

when the weekend began

in earnest, and everything

worth waiting for was just ahead,

around the bend,

within cruising range,

the alluring paleness

of the sky so white

you could almost feel

the night, moonrise

over the growing fields

and farms with their junk

yards of discarded dream

vehicles in barns and culverts,

behind the house graduate

shadows removing color

from the impossible finish.

                                            --Bruce Willard