Smiles Per Gallon, Not Miles Per Gallon

That dashboard screen, a glowing fright,
Of fuel consumed in thirsty flight,
The numbers low, the logic thin,
For thirty-threes and heavy tin.

But those who count the cost of miles
Forget the currency of smiles.
I didn’t buy this rig to creep
Through city lanes while others sleep,
Or sit at lights in grey despair,
But for the crisp and mountain air.

To find the hollows deep and green,
Where only 1-ton steel is seen.
It rides up high, a factory grace,
To find a remote camping space,
Without the sway or lifted doubt,
Just solid axles, heading out.

Past silent farms and forest floor,
Away from every city chore.
So let the trip computer weep,
I’ve got a mountain road to keep.

The tailgate is my favorite chair,
With campfire smoke and messy hair.
For every gallon that I spend,
There’s joy around the river bend.