My First Car

A battered Matchbox Ford survives two childhoods, carrying the scratches from both before finding its way home again.

Black, red, and scratched from all the miles I drove,
my first old Ford has weathered rather well;
there's hardly any paint I haven't marked,
though where it got the worst ones I can't tell.

It's Matchbox. Small enough to palm and hide.
Hit skirting boards and chipped along the side.
I'd fish it out from underneath the stairs,
then find another room in which to drive.

Years on, my son got hold of it one day.
I recognised my scratches under his.
He kept it for a while, then put away
the little car I'd almost forgotten was his.

Now it's back here, scratched black and red and scarred.
The wheels still turn. I give them one more spin.