The lion’s share of cars up here
Are being consumed from below:
A bitter ring of rust appears
On the chassis, a reverse halo
Or muzzle that each winter grows
As road salt eats the paint’s veneer.
The metal is the next to go,
‘Til nothing’s left to interfere.
When I first moved, I made a vow
To wash my car every few days–
At least in wintertime. That way,
The salt could never break it down.
But I could not imagine how
The cold can mortals’ hopes dismay.
I looked below my door just now:
The paint’s begun to chip away.
