This poem deals with a persons thoughts on when she must get rid of her old faithful car. |
Wizm the Car It was on a nice day That I had no choice. My old car was coughing And losing its voice. It had no pep To a new day’s start. It was always at Fix’ems For a new automotive part. I looked at its miles, And tried not to sigh. But in the end a decision Would be the final good-bye. I drove to a dealer To end the misery. And find a new auto To let me be carefree. But one last look at Wism And it’s old white paint. Was enough to remind me My heart would be so faint. Our journeys were amazing. Our luck was more than good. I drove in rain so heavy. Wizm’s tread stayed where it should. I rode to jobs in summer. We went to friends at night. Old Wizm was dependable. From the engine to headlight. But time would mean that Wizm, Would gently begin to die. The parts would rust and falter. Its safety one could hardly certify. I looked at new fast models I felt the inside seat. I thought this was my answer, As I felt a fast heartbeat. But Wizm just kept waiting. On the dealer’s parking lot. For my keys to get it going, And take it back to Camelot. I heard a man who looked at her. He said, “Yea, she’ll do fine.” “We’ll take her apart and junk her.” “I’ll be back to get her, a little after nine.” Good friends I know are hard to find. But good cars are even more rare. I got a mechanic who thought Wizm was a dream. My new husband, who kept Wizm as a spare. |