how it gleams under show lights—
chrome shimmered once like this,
but not after ’67, when my brother drove it
through siege, shot-out glass,
powder-burned rims
riddle-marked at Texas Southern University, the Panthers,
police thundering heat into the hood
as bullet pocks bit into fenders—
the riot shot back.
Flash back—he came home, metal under skin,
marches scars into the street—
the car his shield,
rolling down Main, sits at Woolworth’s counter,
his tires slit, knife-tip quick,
over protest coffee.
Hendrix hummed in his seat, smoke rose from a blunt,
ash settled under the upholstery,
keys jingling against his dog tags.
He drove to Greyhound to meet his buddy,
who stepped off the bus
feeling the dark
with fingers and words that groped
like blind tracks.
Later, he’d slip into those bucket seats,
shift gear, push clutch—
‘Nam still hissing beneath his skin,
Jimi thrashing ‘Foxy Lady’ into the speakers,
the roar of an engine like
a war song.
Now, I’m under the hood,
grease-heavy hands digging
through time, the relic of his years—
windshield crack like a spider vein
that’s slept there for 50 years.
I breathe it in—
the stale air of smoke, pot, sweat,
the faint echo of a world lit on fire.
And when the engine snarls today,
the car show crowd leans in,
the black GTX hulks forward—
it’s ’67 again,
in every muscle of memory,
and history’s howl holds on.
