Alas, poor car, you did me no wrong.
If we forged a spiritual bond,
I broke it that February day.
Was I wool gathering or were his lights
out? No mind. Spilt milk. Misdeed done.
I never knew the freedom you brought
me until the day we parted on
Route 7. Oh my Toyota Matrix
2003, how I miss you! I’m sorry.
Out of juice, I have to say
this thirsty page before me lay.
The manhole cover is doing its job;
life underground remains in a fog.
I’ve got an itty bitty
Just under my arm—
but it’s pritty gritty!