An Olds 88 from Seventy-four
Passed into my life in Eighty-seven,
A massive chunk of metal-
Pale blue and rusty.
You could see the road passing underneath
If you knew where to look.
Just 300 dollars, that I worked for all summer
Made that beat-up, used-up, beauty all mine.
Little did I know that at eight miles to the gallon
The beast would constantly need to be fed.
For two wonderful years,
She devoured every dollar that I made.
I was addicted to the highways and byways
Rolling through the hills and the pine forests-
Trying to find my place in the world!
They no longer make cars so simple,
With room to climb into the engine compartment,
To build relationships with machinery,
To tinker, refine and supe up.
New cars go to surgical shops with screens,
Get hooked up to computers for digital diagnostics-
Complexity beyond the ability found in the shade tree mechanic.
I learned so much from my old pale blue lady,
Not just about cars but also people and Love.
For a couple of years, I knew true freedom,
Filled with wanderlust and blessed with a full tank of gas-
Alone on the road with worn out tires with no particular place to go.
When I was a young man, cock sure of myself,
The political system seamed a lot like that old car-
Big and clunky, not very efficient, powerful and free.
Politics still reminds me of that old car- metal fatigued and rusted,
Sitting somewhere in a salvage yard, awaiting recycling.
Though I’ve moved on and stayed with the times,
I’m not sure I’m better off with the new models,
All the gadgets and progress crammed under the hood,
Inevitably drives the cost and complexity of ownership up.
So that the average person,
Has no means to manage how the engine runs.
Somewhere along the way between seventeen and fifty,
I traded the freedom of a wild, inefficient beast,
For modern computer-controlled efficiency and luxury.
Despite the comfort and power, the safety and style,
I still long for the days when people could crawl
Into the engine compartment
And actually change the way
That their government ran.
