Volvo 245

A poem about the car I ran away in, from the notebook I kept when I ran.

Boxy and big

A poor place to live 

Lots of room in the back

A place to lay for a panic attack

Leather seats

A fine place to weep

An empty passenger seat

That's not how it should be

A broken odometer, failing to count the miles spent running 

The loud engine I can never stop gunning 

Hot AC, no refuge from the heat

At least it gets me where I need to be

I lost what was home, so now I roam

Adopted by the road, all alone 

The car was nine when I was born

But I am the one who is more worn

Someday, may it take me back home