Mercedes lady in her sun hat,
cruising down my street,
she’s pushing eighty–her age,
not her speed–with great hair
longish still and a little wild;
windows down in the tan sedan
that’s been around the block
a few times itself, her gaze
focused tightly on moving forward,
but her thoughts, her dreams,
oh to what places they must wander;
so many roads that car has traveled,
so many stories that woman could tell
after a glass or two of gin.
Copyright 2020
T. Allen Culpepper
Poetry When It Comes 