A black, leather [Wheels within wheels|wheel]
(That spins like cartilage in his [Mind racing, a while back|pained back])
Of a psychedelic, [Apple-pie families and their flaming wreckage|flaming] eyeball on the hood;
Of an [Pepsi|80's-style, cylindrical red and blue pop can] on the roof;
Of a dead father's [129|racecar number], 29,
The oval track where he holds
[Oh Messy Life|His unfulfilled life];
A catastrophe that [circles] back upon itself.
[What did he ever want out of life]?
Who knows with a tight-lipped father
More concerned with the pitching mechanics of his boys
Or the death of [Davey Allison|a beloved racecar driver]
Or perfecting a paint job on someone else's classic automobile
(While his own rusts and dents as a baseball backstop)
Than with his own wants.
Perhaps it's his father he wants back
To show how to drive a [jalopy] in a circle
To show how to raise a kid
Selflessly and with kindness and with firmness
Without [alcohol as a standby].
Wrecks in the [corners],
Side-swiped in the straightaway,
Disabled with a flat back
His engine falters, smokes, and implodes.
[The detritus of a dead car] litters the grayed asphalt.
[Pushed to the pits],
(A [Marlboro Reds|Marlboro Red] waits for when he unclenches his gritted teeth),
White knuckles grip the black, leather wheel
Of his lifeless
[Over to one|racecar]