Green, Drive, Old

I walk.
I walk and I think.
Forgive me, I'm old
And old people think.
I think I'm tired. Of walking.

Perhaps …
Perhaps I could drive.
That would be nice
To be out of the rain.
I count my pennies. Again.

A friend,
A friend has a green
'62 Ford.
Ugly as oatmeal mold.
But it moves. And cheap.

And I
Know I'm burned out
From walking.
I add my pennies together,
Penny by penny. By penny.

My friend.
My friend with the Ford.
Waits in the yard
While I count
The pennies he takes. Away.

My Ford.
My ugly green Ford,
Old as the hills,
Unreliable, too.
Died, so now. I can't drive.

I walk.
I walk. And I think.

I attended a meeting of the Redmond Association for the SPoken Word. They were holding an "Island Style Slam" competition. With three dollars, I "bought" three words—green, drive, old—and 20 minutes to write a poem using the words. Then competitors read their poems out loud and were judged. The fee went into a kitty which the first- and second-place winners split. I didn't win but people liked the light way I handled the words. It was the first new poem I'd written in years.

Copyright © 1998-2005. Michael Quin Heavener. All Rights Reserved.