Matte black and monochrome,

Glassy, placid patch,

In the interplay,

Of the moonlight,

There’s a swirling spectre,

A rainbow in the asphalt.

The oil pan,

Is trying its hand,

At abstract expressionism.

The slow drip isn’t quite random,

And easier to understand,

Than the grand hand of man,

But even without command,

It’d be too harsh to say it’s bland.

My car may be,

A little bit pretentious,

But it’s not just artist-artifice,

I believe in it.