Your grimy black tires
that have driven
through beautiful Boston streets,
sit parked
on the
of Massachusetts,
Supporting your great steel underbelly.
Pipes and hoses,
Gears and axels adorn your underside,
A dark, messy tangle that keeps you
Decals emblazon your flat white sides,
Cracked and slightly faded,
Trumpeting your wares to the city.
A heavenly smell fills your boxy belly,
Seeping, pouring out of your
ticket-counter-like window.
You rumble and groan
each day at lunch time
A delightful harmony
of the roar and growl in my tummy.
Ten minutes with you,
a tango of sorts,
and my life has been made complete once more.