I’m bequeathing the old Dodge Dart to you;
(Guess that’s not the right word
since it implies that I’m dead, and I’m not) .
The Dodge is though. Its demise
was heralded with much fanfare,
hissing steam and incense:
She overheated and gave up the ghost.
If you can get 'er running,
I can think of nobody else I’d rather
pass her on to. You and me
reconciled the problems of the world
in the front seat; I can still see you
sitting over there in the passenger’s seat
telling me what’s wrong with the world
and how we might fix it.
Don’t ask me why I ended up
here in the middle of nowhere,
You know me.
I was out on one of my “excavations”
looking for spider lilies in the bayou,
when I spied this little tractor trail
marked “Horizon Road.”
Now you know I can’t resist poetry
and I took the bait, riding off
into that irresistible horizon.
When the car gave up the ghost
I had to spend the night pulled over
in a cotton field.
The next morning a local farmer
in a '57 pickup (Jesus, it was a beauty!)
gave me a lift back to the
From there I hitched west
and just kept going.
and I’m still going.
I’d tell you where I am
but it don’t matter
I won’t be here tomorrow.
I followed his instructions on the map
inserted in his letter and found the old jalopy
on the side of Horizon Road. I did not have it towed
but left it there as a monument to my friend,
who I knew I’d never see again.
I ride out there looking for indigenous flowers
every month or so.
The old Dodge is all covered up with honeysuckle vine now,
a sweet-scented sculpture pointed toward the horizon.