Sundays

It’s us against nobody else in the world.
We are in a seat that smells like leather because it is leather, cradled inside cherry red steel with chrome bumpers and running boards.

On the dashboard sits Saint Anthony and the grass skirt girl.
We are in the memory-making business and business is good.

We race in and out of movies and we go to ballgames to catch home runs.
We eat buttery foods that we shouldn’t because today could be our last.

We crank up the radio and dance like Men Without Hats.

For six days straight we build up steam.
Caps overheat and blow salty human sweat, a reservoir puddles until we punch our cards and go home.

On the seventh day we check our fluids and rotate our tires.
We watch for potholes and fix our eyes on the road ahead.

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