1966:

  Red, fierce, sharp,

  meant to quench a lust for

  motion unimpeded

  out on the

  open road.

  Her front light

  just on the left half

  folds into the engine

  and her wheel through the seat.

  1988:

  Beat up,

  a gross, tan shade

  that looks less like paint and

  more the aftermath of

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  many drunken nights

  behind him.

  Moved on to better things.

  Something farther from

  the amber glasses

  and the stench that

  kept him from counting.

  1956:

  A classic,

  something obviously

  handed down.

  On the front mirror hangs

  a pair of unremarkable dice

  barely scathed by the

  single point of impact

  through the front window.

  Red specs and

  small, palm-sized

  dents

  leave marks on the door

  that spoke of heres and thens

  no more.

  1929:

  Nobody remembers

  when she took the throne

  perched above the rest

  not unlike a vulture

  eyeing a feast.

  Their frames packed

  loads more than she

  in her prime.

  Yet,

  all the same,

  they turn up here.

  Better each

  passing year,

  yet all the same,

  they wound up

  here