Romantic kids make symbols of anything
Romantic grownups, too. There sits
For sale in my front yard an old white Mustang
I named a long time ago Justine. Her wits
Duller, she needs paint. Her wheels are scuffed
But run she does, growls, still hugging the turf

In 98, Justine, flawless, did the flirting for me
But that wasn’t the point. The point was that
Heroes rode white horses, and that together we
Could find a sunset any time of day, the pedal flat
To the floor we found Memphis in record time
Read Poe by the Mississippi, wrote our own rhymes

That was Valentines weekend, 1999, and yes
We stayed at the Heartbreak Hotel—a real place
With a real desk clerk dressed in black and Elvis
Junk all over. On Beale Street we ate ribs and raced
Home just in time for class. Lord, we did it all—most
Of it recorded in the annals of traffic court roasts

And now. Well. Is it overly dramatic to say it feels
As though I am selling my youth? And cheap, it seems,
Craigslisters lowballing my glory years already a steal—
Justine and I stopped talking years ago, when I deemed
Her unworthy of car seats. Wonder what she’d say
If I told her I plan to replace her with a hat. But hey—

It’s not just any hat. It’s Herbert Johnson’s “Poet”
Wide brim made famous when Indiana Jones wore it

-Jason Lee Miller