Ninety-Eight Jeep Cherokee… My Wolverine

Ninety-Eight Jeep Cherokee… My Wolverine

A high-caliber bullet,
A jade butterfly,
And a big key
Dangle around a mirror.

Years ago
There was
A boy in the backseat
Playing his boombox.

With your mighty treads
The boy crawls
Over steep hills and
Through deep floods,

And your weathered screen
Deflects wind snaps,
Shakes off heavy rain,
And harsh sun on deck.

Spotlights of your intimidating
Face glare light into
Dark seas, while your back
Tells others to slow down.

You’ve accelerated through curves,
Tricking the butterfly into
Trying to wriggle and thrash
From its cocoon once more.

You’ve heated and cooled,
Need to be fueled,
And you shake with
Anxiety near top speed.

I always carry the key,
The trick, the code
To being all the crew
And inciting oar to row

Through any dank jungle
Or forsaken flats,
Or ghost towns or more
Boastful and proud lands.

You are a beacon, the
Way home. You are a
Mount I can count on,
Waiting docked in a quay.

The boy can be captain,
Protected in the breech
Of an armored tank cabin,
Riding over rogue waves

As a destroyer, a submarine,
Or anti-tank immobilizer.
Grown up playing in the backseat,
Now with a big key,

Wrist resting on the yoke,
And left hand on the throttle.
A high-caliber bullet, and
An excited butterfly in hand;

Looking through the periscope
On a bridge, now mine at command.

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