The words seemed to pop out of their own accord,
a surprise even to me, the one who asked them.
So much so that I instantly regretted the question,
afraid this time for sure I had over-stepped the
boundary of what is yours is ours.
Yet, I saw a smile curve the corner of your lips.
Could it be that you were actually pleased I had
slipped so easily into your classic car passion,
that I was so taken with your 1948 Dodge that I
would ask you to leave it to me in your will?
It wasn’t that it was especially unique, just one
of many classic cars, but something about it
struck a chord in my heart. Made me think of
bobby socks, poodle skirts, pony tails and young
love, of kisses under myriad stars.
More than anything it had style, from its hood to
its white wall tires. It was a dingy blue-gray
hunk-a-hunk of love that seemingly begged to
be touched. And I wanted to touch it, curve to
curve, let the aromatic leather titillate my senses.
I could envision us riding through the country-
side, my hair tied up by a silk scarf which would
be blowing ever so glamorously in the wind.
You would have on your black cowboy hat,
looking so chic, so debonair.
On hot summer nights we could lay our bodies
against its cool surface to gaze at the night sky.
Or cruise leisurely through the night, just to listen
to its hissing carbs, the crackling spark plug wires,
the beating of it’s metal heart.