Tristan Robert Lange

Muscle Car

Sitting unsure in my car—should I drive near or far?

The wheel burns my hands like hell’s hottest tar.

Inside this sweltering rusted animal—disgusted—

I roam and betrayal follows; no one can be trusted.

Beads of sweat drip down off my arm to the stick,

The fumes make me retch—I feel a little sick—

Door opens to a taunting driveway: rev up—drive away;

Besides, this is not the safest place for phantoms to play.

The word echoes within me—gaunt—cruelly, they flaunt

The fact that I’m no longer alive—just a muscle car’s haunt.