MY CHARIOT

It was nineteen seventy one,
I dreamt of a cherry red convertible mustang,
cruising down the highway
with player blaring my eight track tapes
of the Beatles and Moody Blues.

What I got that my step dad had bought
he called, “sensible” and “practical.”
This translated into a nineteen sixty eight
Ford Falcon, two door, hard top.

Oh the radio worked for a few AM stations,
the lights on the dashed sometimes lit up
and the shocks were shot
so it road like being in a boat.

Still I learned to love my wheels
because the freedom it gave,
even if I had no idea
about how engines worked
or all the maintenance required.

When the brakes made that grinding sound,
wasn’t a problem since that emergency handle
still allowed me to stop,
after that didn’t help,
there came the education
on the meaning of the term metal to metal.

As for that pool of water on the ground
just below the engine
it probably came from rain,
even if it did drip
anytime the motor was on.

Oh I quickly I learned about repairs,
learning the terms fuel pumps,
radiator hoses and thermostats.

Yet, in between visits to the mechanic
I found some magic on the street,
just me and my Detroit chariot,
even with rattles and those sounds
coming from under the hood
that ended up warnings
another trip to the repair shop
would be my next trip.