The glitzy thing must have hauled itself
to the far side of the ditch and rolled over
like a pregnant dog about to burst.
Once described as zippy by salesmen
who use German as an adjective.
As a minor roadside attraction it has its charm:
cottage-bound families let their cameras
jaw at the hull. A squat bunker
that rain lugs into its rust years.
In the back seat, running on fumes,
field mice fuck like teenagers.
The glove compartment’s loosened maw
is a small bed for a clutch of heather.
It’s been standing at the road’s doorbell
for what must be years, a rough and unexpected
bouquet thrust briefly into a skeptical life.
A mechanical bull that, in a stunning reversal,
hogties you with awe.
But it’s what people want: flowers.