That Tomato Red Chevy
That car was work boots.
Creaked like knees forced
into bending at 6 in the morning,
and rolled around corners
like a tomato.
It was windblown
with the windows rolled down.
The bumper hung half off, clattering
as it sang wind chime songs
to the pavement.
Nothing ever happened in that car
that needed our confessing, but we
wrapped around each other, and
kept warm as fresh tomato soup.