In response to the Weekend Wordsmith

Dec 7, 2007

At what point is a
thing of beauty
allowed to deteriorate
into this —
this rusting hulk
that was such a beautiful car,
the envy of the neighbors,
turning every eye as it
purred down the avenue.

Was it that first dent?
The first scratch unrepaired,
after which each additional insult
was no big deal
because it’s already dented.

And so, one upon the other,
like the unchecked slights
of a souring friendship,
they build up.
Today a dent,
tomorrow a rust spot,
and 50 years later,
being towed down the street,
no engine, no hood,
no dignity.