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The Rainy Cadillac
By Spor Virus
I bought it for two hundred From a broken singer Of a dying band. Stranded without bus fare It had more dents than not Blew out smoke of many shades But it started and had four wheels. and rolled. Found a welder to cut the top Wanted a convertible in the heat. Of course, It rained all that week They said it was a fluke 'Never rains this time of year' But the soggy cadillac kept on rolling That squish in the seat was Beginning to reek—and growing something foul And I feared it might Come to life and infect me Taking me ungingerly For a real death ride. So I dumped it down a hill Onto nearby railroad tracks Waited with a bottle in hand For the next train to come Wish I owned a camera then Cause the show was a sight Early in the night the march of the locomotive roared close And I breathed deep Chug chug chug around the bend The conductor’s last minute realization came with a whistle And iron hit Detroit steel Like a hurricane on a thistle Glass erupted in the air Sparks on the rails Cadillac grinding Like an inspired stripper along that track That train banishing her violently onto the crushed gravel below And down into the hollows. Where she lay in the reeds And the urine-soaked weeds Just a heap of broken Highway dreams. I remember returning to the site late one cold and blurry night like a pirate to rum-soaked shore under the pale moonlight looking for dumped treasure. There She sat stoically on that industrial reef of bricks and rusted debris in the shadow of the city Her iron bones exposed Her glass eyes unwinking and stilled tires slashed in a brutal fury by those in the throes of vandlism and late night revelry. modern pirates of the American underbelly. The opening door creaked I perused in the dark and under that seat I found a half bottle of cheap Jamaican rum So I sat in Her lap and raised that bottle in Her honor— Splashed a little on Her split open dash smashing the bottle across the front glass. And into the night I lumbered, tracing the tracks that claimed Her— tightroping atop the rails like I was walking the plank leaving Her in the thickets In the moist winter chill A target for the bums Undeserving of a Cadillac. And away I scurried, stumbling like a fugitive with panicked breath running away from it all but still unable to resist looking backwards—I, along with the feel of Southern mildew and Detroit leather on my own worn seat, running towards anything that couldn’t follow me back.
About The Author
Mr. Virus is a product of the late-19th century metropolis in all its gritty, crumbling glory. Having lived in numerous cities where all things dark and depraved dwell, he exists to illuminate what is beautiful and redemptive in such desperate times through his writings. It is that need to connect metaphorically to our lives that give us the continuity to remain ourselves no matter what hypocrisies and misleading we are faced with. Spor Virus has published works in several online mags, has performed publicly and is compiling a volume of literary urban sketches as you squint in these late hours to read this.
Author link: Spor Virus at EditRed.