When the bones rock this way, and the Chevrolet green and cream smack together like pieces of fine art, cutting the canvas, and the hands that painted it, feeling the chrome as it burns against the date and time when it's engine spun so quickly with gas, even if it was the weeknight family car, it spent its weekends, curling itself around the hearts and smiles of those in blue jeans and fine colored shirts, those bright skirts of red and white, those scarves of black and white stamped shapes and wrapped around the necks of the pretty ones, who rode in the rides that made the sunshine.
Even with fighting the war, fighting the stamps to buy the fuel, waring the days when it could be stacked against you, but you finding that moment knowing that when the day closes, you'll have enough for a couple drinks in paper cups, and enough to feed the beast to make it run.
No eyes, no windshield, glass gone from the mirrors, the glasses gone from either side, the upholstery worn out and covered with bits of straw and hazy metal springs and a host of memories.
Rode it well, rode it well.
Ralph Peck
Photograph by Ralph Peck
'tween Oologah and Talala Oklahoma
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