A poem for Sunday

A blown tire shaped into the form of a spiral, against a white background
Christopher Griffith

Lucky no one got hurt when I failed
To notice that another car had entered
The traffic circle before me, but not so lucky
When my car was declared not worth repairing.

Lucky my car made no accusations
About the many more years of driving
We might have enjoyed together if only
I’d remembered to look where I was going.

No way to explain to a car, which always waits
Just where you leave it, the human capacity
To drift in thought away from the body
Just when the body is in need of guidance.

No accusations, but how sad the sight
Of its headlights broken and dangling,
Its crumpled bumper and splayed hood,
Its bared frame bent to the side.

No way to apologize for repaying so poorly
How frugal it’s been with the fuel I’ve fed it,
How quick to start up on the coldest mornings
Without the shelter of a garage.

Nobody hurt, but it wasn’t your lucky day,
Lost car, when I drove you home from the dealer
Five years ago. How trusting you were,
How certain that wherever we went together

You’d have your protector with you.
Whatever danger you may have worried
Was lying in wait for us up the road,
You never suspected me.