Because I don’t know how my car works, 
I pray to it like the ancients to the sun.

Hallowed be thy name, Toyota Corolla.
Please get me there, both of us in one piece,

and if you do I’ll sacrifice some green leaves
to buy you oil and a new air filter and maybe

even tires, oh car god. I must seem so slow
to you, so close to the junkyard, and it’s true

that the fast lane now seems far away just as
eighteen seems far away.

I have rust, chipped paint, a rebuilt engine.
When we get there, the ground looks at me

hungrily, like its mouth yearns to swallow me,
and the streetlights shine in my eyes,

the green a flashlight
that spots the problem,

the yellow a dim waiting room light,
flickering as I fill out insurance forms,

the red a doctor’s bleary eyes
as he says I should sit for this.