’55 on the Green Green truck haphazardly sits outside window as if slumped on a comfortable couch, deserves to rest, wing-tip elbows outstretched, watching the view as if to say, “you too”? Shows signs of wear, like anyone mature – a few wrinkles and scratches, lines of age, in ’55 all the rage… but now provokes strange glances, uncaring it clambers along, taking its time, “I earned it”. No one’s gonna kick tires now, got no AC, don’t bother asking. Sure, windows get stuck and at times there’s a backfire – “excuse me”, must have burned some oil that upset the gut. Antique, who’d of thought back in ’55 that I’d still be around, and now what’s that weird sound? Julie A. Dickson
