Sugar and Exhaust

The song was a warble, a slow-motion trill,

climbing the slope of the neighborhood hill.

It sounded like batteries dying in a toy,

a sound meant for a much younger boy.

The white paint was flaking in curls off the door,

as it rattled past the house at number four.

A rocket-ship sticker was stuck to the glass,

missing a fin as I watched the thing pass.

I checked my pockets for a dollar or two,

but all I found was lint and some glue.

I didn't want the cold sugar or the cheap red dye,

just the smell of the diesel as it rolled by.