(Quatrains of Iambic Pentameter with a Rhyming Couplet)
She sits in silver splendor. Silent now, But not for long. That engine needs its say. Velvet mayhem lurks behind that long prow, Its liberty just one key-turn away.
Four-Twenty-Five. Motors grew big back then, And profligate where “high test” is concerned. Refills come fast—short gaps between the “whens”— An oil field’s worth of dead dinosaurs burned.
But, ah, such weekend bliss. Such retro style. Sheet metal sleek, yet creased like formal wear. Twin fender grilles jut forward without guile. This beauty bludgeons her way through the air.
Inside: all leatherette, as black as night… With nighttime naughtiness no doubt in mind. Radio on—a Rat Packer’s delight, Songs for later, when we’re Martini-brined
And she is safely parked in spotlit drive, As though in showroom, glowing with delight. Vast flat-roofed rancher pulses—bebop jive, A hyperactive sax stirring the night.
Yes, soon my dear… quite soon you’ll make that scene. But for now, you’re garaged. You’re sleeping tight. South wall: Ferraris crouch. They’re looking mean. They can’t compete with you. They’re feeling spite.
Oh, sure. Italian tech would wax your tail Road racing at Sears Point or Watkins Glen. But cruising, say, the Tamiami Trail? Those cars are rich boys’ toys. You're made for men
And women with a certain sense of style— Hat-tipping to the icons of their youth, By Jack and Jackie’s elegance beguiled. We drink it in, stirred, chilled, a hundred proof.
I’ll be back when the air’s warmed up a bit. We’ll hit the streets. We’ll turn a head or two. But for now, rest your headlights. I must split. I’ll be back soon. And then, here’s what I’ll do:
I’ll twist your key, shift you to “D” and drive— Two relics of the past, vibrant, alive!
Ah, yes, a love poem to a car. Clichéd? Of course. But why not? Had I slightly more confidence in the weather, the Riviera with which I am well and truly smitten would be out of the garage at Michael’s and in our driveway right now, basking in the still-low late February sun. But after today, the forecast gets “iffy,” and I don’t want to subject this new/ancient car to possible/probable wet, slippery roads covered with deicer. That’s no way to treat a lady.
In essentially all of the cars I’ve purchased since 1983, the first thing I’ve played on the tape deck/CD player after taking delivery has been “Pet Sounds” by The Beach Boys. But… the Riviera, bless her soul, isn’t a Beach Boys car. I’m hearing, as her inaugural tune, Cole Porter’s “What Is This Thing Called Love?” as performed by Mel Tormé.