A pocket full of loose change lies in the unused ashtray,
it vibrates against an admission ticket
to a music festival of years ago.
That foreign buzz somehow compliments the hum
of the air-conditioning and the purr
of the Detroit motor under the hood,
underscored by a catchy honky-tonk song
as it floats out of factory speakers,
like the soundtrack of the latest car commercial
hawking it's wears.
Sure-grip Goodyear rubber cruises along
winding asphalt
at seventy-five miles per hour as you enjoy
the passing scenery while squadrons of suicidal insects
throw themselves at your windshield.