My Car is a Woman's Body

My car is a woman's body.
More specifically, my car is a surrogate mother
To me and the interior,
Her womb.

Inside the car
I am protected from the outside world
Reaching for me,
Clawing at me,
Throwing its demands at me.

When driving in my car
I am separate from everything outside.
I am lost inside
I hear no din from the world.
I let my voice fly
Freely and fearlessly
Knowing that while
The heartbeat of my mother's engine drowns out
The noise of others I am secure to sing in solitude.

My car's name is Shelley.
She can be tempermental and stubborn
And the phrase, "C'mon Shelley"
Has been both a plea for her to do her duty
And words of encouragement -
My vote of confidence that she can make it those last few miles.

She's been beaten,
Scratched,
Egged,
Broken,
Lost,
Scolded.

But Shelley,
My Chevrolet Metro,
Has gotten me through six years of travel
And I know she'll be with me through many more.
She's an old lady,
But has not whithered her.