chuba

My heart is like a broken truck.
I suck on love like leaded gas,
I choke on the gritty oil of my own self doubt.
I've driven on every kind of surface,
the smooth new tarred roads,
shifted poorly about by youthful drivers,
and their teachers stammering feet.
I buckled and jack-knifed on rural gravel,
with the road weary non-union long haulers,
and we all survived but never touched one another again.
I've been salvaged and rebuilt by scientists,
Hell-bent on freeing me from my lifeblood.
Finally one night, I tried to start myself up,
to run my own course,
rebuild rails out of highway.
Insect like, I ground myself to nothing.
Moving cross alley dark cop light museum sign bullyvards.
A dying iron spider feeding off itself,
throwing rods, crushing pistons, catylyzing conversions.
Now in the Rust Dew Bondo of sunrise I sit.
Still and yet not so.
Still have life, parts idling inside me, a colony, but without fear.
Still a truck.
When next I'm found I shall be built another.
Maybe a tall ship.
Maybe a kite?
A carousel I hope.