Everything Wrong With My Car, By Mr. Scho
My car—I call her Annie after her previous owner--
suffered a stroke one sweltering summer afternoon,
rendering her left side useless and me her caretaker.
Her left side-view mirror suspends like a derelict draw bridge aided by duct tape.
(I tried gorilla glue, but the August inferno made quick work of its primate strength.)
On cool Texas evenings, winding through hill country back roads
bordered by bluebonnets,
I roll down my window
not with the automatic switch
but with the palm of my hand,
and my pincher fingers pull it back up when I park.
The keyless entry works fine except, you guessed it,
on Annie’s left side,
and anytime I signal to hang a left,
her bright lights flash the cars in front of me.
It’s been a couple of years since Annie had her stroke
and I notice the effects spreading.
The tires squeak when I brake,
a belt screams when it rains,
and an orange light the shape of an engine with the word “check” underneath it
keeps blinking and blinking at me.
But the sunroof still works!
and Annie decides when it’s time for it to close.
Pockmarks of hail damage speckle her hood,
reminder that if you don’t like the weather in Texas, just wait a little while
and it will get worse.
But Annie brought me to Montana
and by God, she’ll bring me back home.
She’s got new spark plugs and fresh oil,
and the engine-shaped orange light turned off.
Besides, it’s all downhill from here to Texas, right?