— from a writing prompt by Curtis Meyer

Let me start by just saying it:  I love this guy.  Sure,
the music is always too loud, but I do my best
to keep the exhaust screaming, to drown it out,
but he just turns it up. He’s a man
and he needs that noise, I guess.

Even when he loads me up for a night
with friends and guitars,
I know he’s secretly lonely,
just like me.  A muscle car,
no matter how big, is really made for two;

no matter how I try,
he never sees me as his better half.
I’m just a way to help get to what he imagines
will make him whole:
a permanent passenger.

In the meantime, while he’s yearning,
he’s got a good (but randy) heart.
Always talking to lost women, trying to get them to ride.
I’m OK with that; having to carry just him on those empty runs
down Route 88 always seems a little sad, so

I can tolerate every groupie he pulls in,
him always thinking this one will do it for him,
though she never does.  Afterwards, he writes songs
about someone else. I like to think I’m the great love
he’ll never openly acknowledge, the denied Other he pines for

on those shore drives, those trips to Madam Marie’s.
Once, cruising from Freehold to the Shore,
I tried to express what I was feeling. 
“Boss,” I said (working his ego), “Boss,
you know you’ll never get anyone who purrs for you like me.

We’ll take it on the road together.
Open us up and let’s just go. Forget Wendy
or whoever else you’re thinking of right now. 
We’re born to run, baby,
you and I…”

I don’t care that he stole the line.  I don’t even care
about him calling me a “suicide machine.”  He knows
any death we might find together
would be an accident and I’d never hurt him, no matter
how I hurt. No, if there’s anything I resent,

it’s not the girls — it’s that guitar. 
I think he loves it more
than I could ever love him,
and I know it’s not the same for her:
snarly little bitch, ingrate,

making him work for it,
always taking credit for his fame —
lemme tell you: I think we all know
which Fender really
made his name.