“White '76 TR7” by Matt Thomas

White '76 TR7

There was a white ‘76 TR7 for sale in the driveway

of a trailer house across the street,

and my imagination watered

with every look over my shoulder,

storm doors opened to a hole in the ground,

a gutted bird that I descended into,

Japanese Stratocaster in hand, my only asset,

salivation conditioned by a fantasy

in which I wrenched the car back to mint

and drove around nights

light streaked and soundtracked, fleshed in neon.

I didn't know anything about cars

and had no money

but I was born to live like the euphoric scrawl above a urinal

and I did, selling Smiths covers

with my hips and half of the chord changes,

aglow with greed for the world and an internal distortion

that squelched

when we lost that basement rehearsal space

and I watched the Triumph

squatting in goose grass and dandelions,

recede in the rearview

of my parent's Ford Fairmont for the last time.

Sometimes I Google 'White ‘76 TR7' but it’s no good

having it now that it’s possible —

desirability is a coefficient of need:

what I needed then was substance,

not because I had nothing but because I was nothing.

I don't pine for a body anymore,

but I do root around occasionally

for that broken string rusted of the moment,

a tug like the thump of a bass drum beater when I find it,

to sing along remembering the words,

please, please, please let me get what I want this time.

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Matt Thomas is a smallholder farmer, engineer, and poet. His recent work can be found in Cleaver Magazine, The Thieving Magpie, and Common House. 'Disappearing by the Math,' a full-length collection, was published by Silver Bow in 2024.