When I step out into the Flagstaff day
and all around the sky of blue does shine
only then I ask with dread and dismay
which godforsaken Subaru is mine?
The stickers slapped upon dusty old flanks
display contrived originality.
Nary do help the cruel distinction make
these candy-colored testaments of glee.
Ski racks, rust stains, gear strewn, glass chipped, hatch packed:
hallmarks of a mountain-town four-wheel-drive.
So when you are in this conundrum backed
just jump in someone else’s beat-up ride
and be glad you’re not driving to yoga
behind the wheel of a trite Tacoma.