There’s a ’55 Ford Thunderbird
That follows me wherever I go
It’s old and rusty, but it runs like new
And it’s much closer than it was a few years ago
My persistent shadow, hovering nearby
It’s been there as long as I can remember
Trailing behind as I mow the lawn
Idling quietly while I rake leaves in September
Sometimes it snarls with a loud engine rev
And I jump out of my skin
It regards me with bright, stoic headlights
And I sense a tainted, evil soul within
Quiet and menacing, a nightmare on wheels
It used to keep a courteous distance
Now its tires nearly tread on my heels
I try to ignore it, but it loves to test my patience
When I dare to turn and look at it
I can not see the driver through the dark windshield
No one else notices the Thunderbird at my back
I’ve asked it nicely to go away; but it doesn’t yield
It has yet to touch me in any way
But it inches closer every day
I wonder when its hungry black tires will finally claim me.
| 
Email this Poetry
| 
Add to reading list
