The Blue Bomb

Remembering my first car.

The Blue Bomb

Robbie Furtwangler

 

Like all hand-me-downs,

the Furtmobile was ripped, stained, and tired.

It moved at the pace of an ice cream truck.

An ‘84 Buick Skylark, Deluxe no less,

in its day rivaled pimp-daddy Cadillacs.

It was dirty like a retired garbage truck,

and rumbled just as loud.

Good times have been had,

my brother and his friends cruising Fort Johnson Road,

burning initials with butane into the faux leather,

and breaking off what wood-grained plastic had survived.

You had to tap the knobs to get the front speakers to work,

but behind the pops and static the back ones blared 96 Wave just fine.

 

I don’t know if the cigarette lighter worked,

it was very stuck in there.

The rearview mirror fell a few times.

The car came with crazy glue in the glove box,

which was held shut with duct tape.  

 

We sprayed chrome in a can where trim once was,

and we used a Garfield bed sheet as a seat cover.

It doesn’t seem right to use the word dash,

but the dash board was cracked,

and the speedometer danced 5 mph in each direction. 

 

If you are late, too bad,

getting into third gear may take a while,

and you have to have plenty of time to brake,

assuming the brakes will work.

Towards the end, my window stopped rolling altogether,

so I ashed on the floor

because I could.

 

But, you know, I’m happy to drive a Hoopty;

if I’d been in a Hyundai,

that 120 mph drunk would’ve killed me.

Author's Note

is the ending effective, or should it be another poem?