Smoker 56

Odometer reads well.
Speedometer too.
Standard.
Gear shifts near perfect when
the asphalt speaks to the motor and transmission
road speed matches.  Golden.  Shift.

Without a thunk.  Whisper and an easy nod.

Old iron hide.  Broken knuckles and skin flakes.
Blood on the chassis and some burned to oil fumes
on the engine block.  Torn fingernail tips sitting
in the "I" and "C" beams that keep the machine
churning.  Flake of eyelash vaporized at 600F.

Silly function.  Park.  Get out.  Sit in the truck bed.

Spark.  Think.

Pilot a weapon every day or ride a refrigerator
to the third star on the right.
Stories have been told of an oasis
where sandwiches come already made
and where the made come to look at sandwiches
without buying.

Read the cloud like flipping coins
with chicken bones.
It is a shame no one believes in magic
with the same fervor.

Be sure to stop by the general store
to pick up more needles
and thread.  The ashtray is already prepared.