1966:


    Red, fierce, sharp,


    meant to quench a lust for


    motion unimpeded


    out on the


    open road.


    Her front light


    just on the left half


    folds into the engine


    and her wheel through the seat.


    1988:


    Beat up,


    a gross, tan shade


    that looks less like paint and


    more the aftermath of


    Stolen novel; please report.many drunken nights


    behind him.


    Moved on to better things.


    Something farther from


    the amber glasses


    and the stench that


    kept him from counting.


    1956:


    A classic,


    something obviously


    handed down.


    On the front mirror hangs


    a pair of unremarkable dice


    barely scathed by the


    single point of impact


    through the front window.


    Red specs and


    small, palm-sized


    dents


    leave marks on the door


    that spoke of heres and thens


    no more.


    1929:


    Nobody remembers


    when she took the throne


    perched above the rest


    not unlike a vulture


    eyeing a feast.


    Their frames packed


    loads more than she


    in her prime.


    Yet,


    all the same,


    they turn up here.


    Better each


    passing year,


    yet all the same,


    they wound up


    here