The World According To Ben Part 13 ..Our Poet “Fantastico’ Ponders Taking The Smooth Ole Riv To A Ca

Snacks”

(A Rhyming Haiku Sequence)

“Love that chrome!” I say, Sidestepping bumper bullet Of a Cadillac

Nearly old as me. “Some is pitted, I’m afraid But right now I lack

The cash to fix it,” The owner, in car show T, Gasps (nicotine hack).

Classics and hot rods Rumble in. They’re lining up By a running track.

Building nearby bears “Community Center” sign, But it’s more a shack.

Flat-top-grilled hot dogs Scent surroundings temptingly. Server sternly hacks

Frozen clump of ice Cubes to be used with the Cokes. Of course, I think “Snacks!”

Dad shows Ford Fairlane— Fifty-Seven; love those fins— To toddler, back-packed,

In Ford baseball cap And a Thunderbird T-shirt. Kid playfully smacks

Back of Daddy’s head. Dad smiles because… he’s a Dad. Proud heart just might crack

His chest. It’s chock full Of Daddy-Love for his son. He earns “Good Dad” plaque.

I walk on. Street Rod Shows some bizarre bodywork. Rope-drive Pontiac

Tempest gave chassis So this beast could rise undead. Passion… but no knack.

Ugly little lump Betrays builder’s lack of skill. Needs sledge hammer whacks

To be truly junk, Or many thousands of bucks To tighten the slack,

To straighten the bends, To make masterpiece of this Rolling bric-a-brac.

But—of course—who cares? This man’s pride is on display. Pat him on the back.

He’s more skilled than I. Took me months to build birdhouse In Wood Shop. Don’t clack

Your tongues. Some of us Merely spectate, ooh and ahh. No use firing flak.

No skilled mechanic, I delight in others’ work. Now… some Crackerjack!

Hope the toy inside’s A Model T modified— Head by Frontenac.

It sputters quite loud, Emitting little more than Clouds of oily black.

And, of course, it drips Fluids. It’s a Twenty-Three Hemophiliac.