It’s my truck, she has all the answers.
And it’s her windshield that has heard more truths than a confessional.

It’s her steering wheel that has felt fits of rage, 
grips of anxiety, and times of high spirits. 
And her gas pedal that has been pushed to its limits. 

It’s her seats that hold heavy conversations and lost lighters. 
And it’s her fabric that has felt all the emotions.
Sorrow and happiness, absorbed into the fibers. 

It’s her floorboards that have collected more tears and dirt than admitted. 
And it’s her shifter that will just drop into gear and go whenever needed. 

It’s Bessie that will just sit with me anywhere, for hours. 
She will just sit, for however long. 
And it’s her blown speakers, reminding me of my growth, 
with every cranked up song.

- R. Short