• Matt Smythe

'67 BRONCO


how many heartbreaks spilled across the front bench seat

how many awkward sweating attempts at love

Saturday night whiskey breath dirt roads

driving faster than the headlights

skirt tucked between her legs hair spilling from under a ball-cap she winks

he jams third gear on the column

clutch gas and a skinny steering wheel

already making up an excuse for coming home late

there’s no blues written for the Bronco

no hell only eternity slipping out the passenger door

beer and independence

neon cursive parking lot mix of blue-collar carbuerators and perfume

but mostly nervous glances

and the Stones’ Let’s spend the night together

unfiltered Lucky Strikes for good measure

utility’s muscled middle finger to pinstripe pink-slip hot shots tethered to blacktop

watching their girl now bounce over the hill in a cloud of dust and lust

kicking stones into windshields for good measure

there’s no blues written for the Bronco

no hell only an empty gas can and a long walk

dashboard glow

static rock-and-roll radio disc jockey swagger

hippies already revolutioning

and a Vietnam death in every town no one sees coming

pawing field grass for lug nuts the spare hanging cock-eyed

lightning bugs’ morse code in the heavy summer dark

fist-fights slammed doors adjusted mirrors bloody teeth

an eye he’ll have to explain to mom over breakfast

there’s no blues written for the Bronco

no hell only small town boredom

summer’s unrequited powder-keg

slow-burn sun-tanned angst

hubs locked and headed straight for a dare

today’s classic is yesterday’s quarter tip for a piece of apple pie

leaded gasoline

an eleven-gallon dream

drive like there is no tomorrow

because there is no tomorrow

there’s no blues written for the Bronco

no hell only the idled engine of youth

Recent Posts

See All

WATCHING THE SUNRISE OVER SEDONA

I closed my eyes for one inhale and exhale stood waiting and small sage on the wind reminding me that I am west again so many stars in pre-dawn purple a teeming riot above rock sky sage red-

GIVE ME TRAILS

Over the course of a summer of running trails in my favorite park in upstate NY, I had pretty much written a poem in my head. When I finally took the time to get it on paper, it showed up in a heartbe

DECEMBER SECOND

Right outside the back door a Plume Moth is gently perched on the siding. Unique, tiny, and intriguing, but out of context. “It’s December. De.cem.ber.” I mumble out loud to remind myself, and possibl

  • Black Instagram Icon

@fishingpoet

  • LinkedIn Social Icon

mattsmythe

© 2017 By Matt Smythe