Valiant – KensView

I spent my summers in the thick, heavy air,
surrounded by the hum of machines,
the scent of paint and sweat,
the grind of work that soaked into my skin.

Each day, hours stretched long like the paint on the walls,
endless and still.
But somewhere beneath the weight of labor,
I carried a fire,
a dream that pulsed with every drop of sweat.

The 1968 Plymouth Valiant—
it wasn’t just a car,
it was freedom,
the promise of the open road,
the sound of the engine roaring to life,
the rush pulsing through my veins.

I saved for it,
pennies and dimes stacking up,
small victories in every paycheck,
the world beyond the warehouse
slowly coming closer.

And when the day arrived—
the Valiant, gleaming under the sun,
its chrome shining like a future waiting to be claimed—
I slid into the driver’s seat,
felt the wheel in my hands,
and for the first time,
it was mine.

But it wasn’t just mine,
not in the way I’d imagined.
The Valiant had room—
room for more than just me.
The bench seat stretched wide,
perfect for two.

So I later at college I drove,
with her next to me,
the warmth of her close against my side,
her laughter mixing with the hum of that slant six.
We drove on highways lit by the glow of the setting sun,
hands brushing, hearts beating in time with the road.

The Valiant didn’t just carry us
from one place to another,
its front seat was a place for us to hold tight,
to the road, to the moment,
to each other.