Thursday, September 14, 2006

My car

My car is a fixer-upper.
Except that it's too old to fix up.
But my car has character.

My car was in an accident before I even got it.
Written off, and rebuilt.
My car has faded over time.
Now the front is coral.
Body is red, and back bumper is maroon.
My car is not beautiful.

My car has dents.
Big honkin' paint-scraped-off dents.
And one of the rear doors no longer opens.
Without strain.
Because of the dents.

My car has windows that don't roll down.
And it only blows mildly warm air.
When it's cold and wet out, the windows are prone to fog up.
Unless I use both hands.
Fight and curse.
Force the window to crack open.
Then, it's a bit better.
But I get rained on.

My car has a clock radio.
It's not so hot.
My car only gets bad a.m. radio.
On more than one occasion.
I have driven to work.
Listening to "The Name Game".
The clock is set to some preposterous time.
It's not that I can't tell time.
But the clock is set by disconnecting the battery.
Then you have to reconnect it.
At either noon or midnight.
So the time will be right.
And I can't be bothered.

My car has an interesting dashboard.
All of the dashboard lights are burnt out.
The gas gage doesn't work.
So we fuel according to mileage.
The tacometer is affected by the windshield wipers.
And the wipers only run on really-extra-super-fast.
But the temperature gage is starting to work again.
Knock wood.

My car has a leaky radiator.
We have tried to fix it.
Recently, we have given up.
Now, we just top it up with coolant when it's low.
It's a slow leak.
It doesn't bother us much.
But the pavement out front has dark patches.
Under my car.
I don't care.
I don't own the pavement out front.

My car is gutless.
It won't do more than 60 km/hr on a hill.
But it gets me where I need to be.
And I appreciate it.

My car is old.
And it lacks many finer luxuries.
But it is my car.
It runs.
All of its exterior lights work.
It has signal lights.
It comes equipped with mirrors.
It has a fully functioning battery.
It is red.
Or reddish.
Depending on where you look.
It takes me to work and home each day.
In rush hour.

I like my car.
I think it's charming.

But my car is, apparently, invisible.
I see no other explanation.
My car gets rear-ended every other month.
I would think that my car would stand out.
Given its rather unique appearance.
But it apparently does not.
It cannot be seen.
Except by me.
And other drivers.
But only after they have slammed into it.

Dear other drivers.
If you're going to hit me.
And injure my neck.
Could you please hit me at higher speeds.
So that there will be more damage to my car.
And I can claim my resultant injuries.
On your insurance.
Without raising eyebrows.
But no.
Instead, I must pay the chiropractor.
Out of my own pocket.
Each and every time.
At least I can be grateful for benefits.

I like my car.
I like other drivers.
I really do.
But my neck hurts.
And I must go and lie down now.

1 comment:

Rigmor said...

Not to forget that your car is very lucky! I don't think many cars get poems written to them like this.