I sit in my old car, a ninety-eight
and listen not close to the music.
The weather is cold, it’s January;
and the sound, I guess, could be classic.

I think of the meter as I write down,
anapestic, or maybe iambic.
Now, I know, you’ll stop and count out each line;
if you’re like me, you’re probably manic.

We’re frantic about our meter and rhyme,
and canter with thrill, the rhythm and time.
I follow no form, but I bloviate –

The radio works, but that’s all that does.
Has anyone need for a ninety-eight?

©2013, Marvin Loyd Welborn