Pink stickers appeared on our block
One Sunday morning.
My old wreck along with the others
Looked as if it had been kissed by some painted hussy,
A cheap trick -
Twenty-four hours to move or be towed
Away with all the other jacked-up,
Tireless, mangled heaps parked on the street.
I guess it was just our turn.
I had procrastinated three months,
Knowing a deadline would finally break
The bond of guilt and ownership.
But I would not sever it myself.
If I had sold it at my leisure
With an ad in the Sunday Trading Post,
I could have gotten a hundred and fifty, ... perhaps.
But no, greed could not be our parting word.
So it went to a man for seventy-five bucks.
Walking to my local bar,
I bought drinks and had a proper wake.
May 1980
Ha, I know the feeling. I totaled one car, and another's transmission died and it had to go to a crusher. That hurt. I loved that little car! Loved your poem.
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