The other day I learned what a jalopy was:
"An old car in dilapidated condition."
Of course, the next day when I pressed the gas
I bumped the tail end of that premonition:
My bumper split in twain, the lower valence
Caught beneath my wheel and ground to shreds.
Time comes for us, regardless of complacence
Or alertness, of sweat or blood or oil shed.
But still she runs, and so I wonder if
There is a middle age for this Toyota,
Not quite a sparky hybrid young and swift
But not a piece of junk beyond life's quota.
It seems demeaning to be called a jalopy
If still she runs, though not as gallopy.