Me and my old Mustang were built the same year –

A lot of things have come and gone, but we’re still here.

I was born in Queens on a clear March afternoon;

He rolled off the Dearborn assembly line in June.

I remember when I was a kid, maybe 4 or 5,

Telling my dad when I grow up, that’s what I’m gonna drive.

It took a while – a few cars, a few owners in between –

But we always had a rendezvous, me and this machine.

Me and my old Mustang, we’re essentially the same:

A faithful little motor on a long, lean frame.

No fancy frills or add-ons, no spoilers, no tricks;

Just a stock coupe in white with an inline six.

It’s got that cool-looking hood with the turn signal lights –

I get a kick out of hanging my lefts and my rights.

The hubcaps are original, the seats are two-tone blue;

Tune-ups are a breeze: my old Mustang runs like new.

Me and my old Mustang, we like to drive real slow,

Let the people get a look, toot the horn at folks we know.

We often make them smile. We’ve been known to change a mood;

An old man regards us kindly, a kid says, “nice car, dude!”

Me and my old Mustang, we go riding into town

With Sgt. Pepper’s turned up and the windows rolled down.

What’s that? Oh thanks, I washed and waxed it earlier today.

Sure, hop in – there’s plenty of room – we’re headed that way.

Walsh’s poems have appeared in Barrow Street, The Christian Science Monitor, Cimarron Review, and The Hudson Review, as well as in magazines and journals in Australia and Ireland, including Quadrant and the first issue of THE SHOp. More poetry can be found on his website,

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