Thomas O. Davenport: Of Cars And Men

All men resemble cars, both age in time.
As fluids round each gasket ooze and leak
Suspicious drippings add to driveway grime;
A pan-flat road now seems an Alpine peak.

Once powered by hormones, male fuel, sublime,
They raced down every route, a blazing streak,
But now they’re low on juice and past their prime
The pointer’s tip has moved from Full towards . . . Eeek!

The surface fades and cracks, a dried-out rind,
For rust and rot corrode that sleek physique;
Ball joints emit an inauspicious grind;
Unlike mere men, a car's worth more antique.

The last chance for an old man’s failed design?
Transplanted parts, rebuilt with new techniques
Replace with throaty roars the cough and whine;
A fresh pump quiets those annoying squeaks.

And those who seek a more extended run –
Though long life's never thrown in quite for free –
Must supplicate the Automotive One:
“Please God, will you extend my warranty?”

 

Blue and white handpointing right with cuf See The Poets for TOD's recent Kelsay collection