Living with you, Ike, is one long tornado-driven hailstorm.
I did not appreciate bullets in my ass and blood on my leather.
Damn lucky my 20-gallon fuel tank wasn’t hit.  

My tires scream as cops chase us through Lexington –
            west on Main            
            left on Upper            
            right on High Street heading home. 
How my leaf springs groan under the weight of whiskey.
I slosh when you slam to a stop or swing into a curve;
wheels scrape curbs while my chassis
sways like Marion Davie’s hips.  

Touring cars cargo well, but,
Ike, like all your women,
my closed, aluminum body is top-heavy.

One minute you caress me
polish my Dupont Duco blue lacquer paint
change my oil and spark plugs
wash my windows inside and out.  

The next minute you devil drive me —
bang the break-pedal to the floorboards
then expect me to plunge into my 48.7 horsepower?
            Inertia, Ike!  

For now, I’m unstable yet unstoppable.
I’ve got spirit, but a girl needs a little tenderness.
One of these days you’ll miss an apex
and there I’ll be –
            one more used up flapper.