Two and a half weeks ago

it outlived its most recent owner. I wonder how many ghosts have driven this car in the century of its life, and how many more will?

Perhaps he will be the last: it is going to a museum where I don't expect it will be driven. Instead it will sit on blocks in some unvisited room dreaming of the dusty, empty roads of its youth, and hating its captivity and its captors both.

Sometimes, at night, I hear it lamenting its fate.