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Cars fairly dipped in wax so shiny liquid
the colour invites a drink;
“Some protectorant there”, methinks-
a life and not a scratch,
not a thatch or dimple, nary a wimple,
not the slightest unsightly pimple
marring the flow and seductive lines-
a life sped without indent;
immune, spent in a special lane cleared of hard times.
Easy on the eyes, with “Oohs”, “Ahhs” and sighs.
What propels these seeming machines,
screeching and screaming, scheming and leaning
out at high speed;
ripping, grasping their dreams-
Oft times from slower and peeling
vehicles of lesser material means.

My vehicle is marred, and I like it this way-
I can see that dent and remember when;
I can pull up that funny fine day.
(That light post wouldn't get out of my way!)
Where is the joy in flawless contours-
there's no story, no tale-
a motor of sweet and sexy growl,
a machine never satisfied, never shiny enough,
ever on the prowl-
I'll pass on that dream machine fueled of the foul.

This poem is Copyright ยฉ Invierno