A Love Letter to my Best Friend Camille
You never forget your first.
Every morning I look forward to getting in you, turning you on ‘til you exhaust.
Your body, sleek, slender, vanilla skin,
a little rough around the edges,
with your rear end beholding a large crack,
but a nice rack, my opinion.
You carry a dump trunk to hold my load
the way you squeak when I turn you.
They don't make you like you anymore.
I know you are used goods,
the way you reliably fit me and 4 guys.
My grandpa may have taught me how to ride you,
but when my auntie first bought you at
a Toyota dealership in ‘99,
named you after Claude Monet’s wife,
Camille the Camry,
a model and an inspiration,
you always supported my butt,
shaking me in my seat,
and came in clutch.
A bit high maintenance, but lovin’ it when I gave you gas.
You are a classy chassis,
a power house steering me in the right direction.
You help me run errands, fulfilling my trans mission.
Your eyes, beaming,
I appreciate your head, lighting up the road.
You are four wheel.
Driving you was no drag, on free ways,
always on the dash, never board, put the pedal to the metal, no spoilers, but
you are worth the DMV lines.
I don’t care what others say about you.
You’ve taken a lot of shit… from birds.
You absorbed my shock,
the catalyst to convert my mixed emotions when I needed to vent.
You are my caraoke when I needed to be ok,
my escape when I need to find my bearings.
You are a vessel of memories as I’m looking in the rearview
so I can reflect on my first road trips, my first kiss.
Charged with assault on your battery as my safety neutral when I’d break down
that it killed me when you finally broke down.
I hoped car years would last as long as human years.
You carried 3 of my generations,
held my hand from elementary to university.
We traveled more miles than from here to the moon.
Beyond the pavement you spilled oil,
the uphill battles of LA soil,
I thank you for our journey, together, my ride and die,
I wouldn’t have survived
for you have always been, my drive.
