Deep beneath the floor of memory

Hidden behind the sacks of intention

The blue opel sits

In the fifty-year garage.

 

Complete with the nylon pin-striped ceiling

And cushioned back seat

With tiny speakers that play only Floyd,

Or maybe James Gang after too much to drink.

 

The blue square box,

That we flew back from the Tetons

Angel dust in our noses

And God knows what in our heads.

 

It shines still,

Like it just rolled fresh off the factory floor.