Motor City

300 miles
and one dead bird later
we arrived in Detroit.

With that fat Caddy
laying semi-ambular and impotent across I-94,
only doing an anemic 45,
that Chicago license plate doesn't fool me,
Texan.

You can tell a lot about people
from their driving habits.
Some people put their heroes on marble pedestals
but I place my poet super heroes
in full Fritz Freling animated glory
behind the wheels of automotive steel and fury.

Kim was born to straddle Studebaker leather,
his face strong and foreign,
cultured and irreverent
beautiful and dangerous.
He would only drive first-class ensconced in decades
with the ashtray full,
littered notebooks on the bucket seat,
speakers scattering Bobby McFerrin
with lazy warmth on Belmont.
He reminds me of Guantanamera
lilting softly in Guadalupe
and he probably drives like a poet.
I imagine Kim always lost,
and either not admitting it
or not caring about it
in the least.

Ren'e has to drive a 76 Monte Carlo
the way my Loony Toon saturated brain works.
It can't accept her 60 inch frame
in anything but an American made,
gas-guzzling,
asphalt-shredding,
child-scaring,
bondoed death-machine
with chromed-out guts
and chain-link steering wheel
with a spark plug in the tail pipe to make a bitchin flame.

Ren'e is the media of life
shaped and carved by years.
Couldn't put her in a fetal-fresh off the lot foal.
No, she is the marks and bruises
of angels
and her car should be alive.
In my mind Ren
'e is the Road Warrior,
the Ayatollah of Rock n' Rolla
sideswiping ice-cream trucks
and barreling through residential neighborhoods
at 95 miles per hour.
Cutting flame trails past the church bazaar
on Sundays
as she rides off into the sunset on her way
to make someone else smile
in Motor City.


Copyright, EPB, 1997

Tours with Eric, in vintage Eric mobiles, is always an adventure. Lots of time to think going slow enough to see.

Slow enough to write -- which is harder when I drive. Going with class means going chauffeured.

 

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