'34 ford

we bump and wind our way along the hilly roads in your old flatbed,
the transmission grinding and whirring on the inclines,
but still it climbs on,
steady and strong,
and i imagine it to be happy,
to be put to work again,
though beautiful and aged a bit,
it's the sort of truck that needs a job,
there's a soul somewhere in all that metal,
one that would surely suffer if it was treated as a “classic”,
buffed and glossy and only taken out for sunday drives,
or,
left idle,
to rust and decay,
its usefulness slowly flaking away,
sitting atop flattened, rotting tires,
half-buried in weeds,
a home for rodents and spiders,
but luckily, long ago, it found its way to you,
and this is where it belongs,
bumping and winding and whirring through the hills,
with you at the wheel and a load on its back