I called you Champagne, the factory’s glam
name for your golden hue. You hummed
& purred, you caught the light just so,
your doors shut with a satisfying thump,
sealing me inside you, safe from the world.
But those years on Chicago’s potholed streets
were hard on us both. Instead of gliding 
on air like a magic carpet, you bounced
& shimmied like a voguer on Halsted Street,
your struts shot, your axles grinding, your
tires as slick as the rain itself. We escaped
to Kentucky on fumes & I drove you into
the ground, left you for dead in the driveway
two whole years. Forgive me, sweet chariot.
I couldn’t afford to fix you—I couldn’t
afford to fix myself—but I couldn’t let you
go. Acquiring a coat of tree sap, dry leaves
& regret, you stood for my old life, when
I could go anywhere, anytime. In the end
I gave you to another man, some guy who
could look after you the way you deserve. 
I bathed you, shined you up one last time,
then waved, old girl, as he towed you away.
You looked as lovely as the day we met.