On a dead-end of sleep,
I dreamt Chevrolet revving
what might have been
its mouth for a motor
in a argument
to ransacked Ford,
who muffled something
under its muffler.

I thought it nonsense,
when Ford stood up
on its backend axle,
tailpipe smoking a cigarette-
turning the argument into a
shove.

Chevrolet rolling up the sleeves
of its fender showing off the bulging
muscles of Michelin on its rocker arm,
a tattoo of yellow lightning
charming its body.

Ford put down its tinted
glasses, as Chevrolet folded
a cap neatly in the backseat-
blinked its visors twice
to the sun glare and charged
Ford with full speed
smashing the teeth of its grill-
spitting oil from the bumper.

Blocking the second punch
with a mudguard,
it threw a left balding Dunlop
at Chevrolet’s right headlight,
crushing the pupil of its bulb.
 
Then I saw Ford perform
what might be a head-bud
onto Chevrolet’s windshield-
splitting the clean glass face
with a fork for a frown.

Chevrolet’s hood bobbed
angrily like the lid of a teakettle;
fierce steam spurting green
from the dented radiator.
Pulling a knife from the glove box
and with a flip of a switch
the blade found the transfer case-                                                              
Ford let a scream escape
with the blow of its horn,
as transmission fluid gushed forth.

Ford charged unexpectedly
and rammed Chevrolet repeatedly
with a flee for survival,
inching with each strike of might-
reverse-forward, reverse-forward
it jolted into its body as lighting
as if the last standing
at a demolition derby,
claiming the trophy.

I heard Chevrolet lying crushed
on the side of its door-
moaning in despair.
I think it went urine,
when I saw a puddle
of gasoline forming underneath.
Lying with weak pistons
firing disorderly- 
valve intake choking
on combustion
dome light flickering,
headlight dimming
battery pulsing
to a dry cell. 

In my car
far from the scrap-
of America's stamp of approval,
the rearview mirror of a slain
automobile growing smaller
bleeding its brake lines.

I opened the door
of my house
and found my mother
arm disjointed
bent in the motorized
wheelchair sitting on flats,
with the smell
of a dull cigarette
burning beside her,
closed eyes
cut bruised lips
that left an oil stain
on my father’s backhand,
where he sat holding
an ashtray and knife
close to the broken belts
in his stomach.