white scar

I was eleven
When you parked
A beat-bus on my heart,
For the hidden key-to-start
An almost-empty car.
Ford LTD; white scar;
Stitched to upholstery-art
In vinyl blue-bounty,
An 8-track of Lionel
Half-ejected
(Too-oft-selected).
Dirt-dry county:
The spin to sin
Was Tahoka-far—
Not a bar
(You’ve a kid at home).
Ne’er must you’ve been so alone
As on that red-loam roam—
Oh, I’ve come to know—
To city-limit-sublime,
Where, for a dollar,
All had a rhyme again,
And the crow had flown;
For the ‘member-when
Was past-due
On rent—
Just not for a BAC-amnesiac.
But that blue-headed boy
Meant what he meant,
When he gave up a joy
For a rug-off-the-rack
And a got-your-back
I’ll-cover-you.