The bellow of her Buick 8

scattered egrets and redfish upon ignition

like soap dropped in a greasy skillet.

An ingenious amalgam of junk-yard scraps,

spare parts from the Gulfway machine shop–

she wasn’t pretty but, damn, could she sing!

Her wooden hull’s raucous vibrato

shattered the Sabine’s brackish mirror,

earning stares from spiteful fisherman ready to

blame the day’s small catch on Colleen.