Selecting a Fine Automobile by Ann Howells

I’ve depended on another’s
internal combustion engine for far too long.
I’m looking for independence.
I can’t afford luxuries like heat
and tires that aren’t silky smooth,
but Dealin’ Dan’s lot holds rows
of exhausted hulks.

I test an ancient Ford
molting paint, and so hot inside
the windows perspire. It purees my innards;
perhaps the engine is from a paint mixer.
Zero to thirty in as many minutes –
gas gauge stuck on the big red E.

I try a primer-coated Honda
so invisible police might not see it.
Bench seat is ergonomically hostile
and radio stuck on a station
intent on castrating Jagger.
It wheezes like a church organ
and puffs black smoke.

I spy car three: candy-apple red:
racing stripes, dark-tint windows,
souped-up deep-throated rumble.
Its roof drips soapy water like tears.
Dealin’ Dan assures:
Got her this mornin’
be snapped up soon. I don’t think
of gas, it’ll guzzle like beer on Friday;
Dan asks $600,
exactly what’s in my hand.