The petrol gauge is not working. The radiator
leaks and when it’s removed looks like a harp
an angel would trade in. ‘Two words, madam’
says the forecourt attendant: ‘New car.’
But a friend left it to me: I still
talk to her when I’m driving it. So often
I sat beside her in the passenger seat.
‘Navigate for me,’ I say. ‘Get me home.’
And there’ve been improvements.
New tyres, new doors. Someone
who borrowed it once waxed it
so beautifully I could hardly believe it.
And it lives outdoors. Isn’t that
Something to be admired, applauded?
An animal without a bed, a little
red car with nowhere to lay its head.
Elizabeth Smither
