Talking to my car

Sammy Loehnis

I once went over to talk to my dream car,
and I complimented it, even when
it was sleepy and still I climbed inside,
and touched the steering wheel,
snuggled down in the cosseting seat,
told it about its engine, how big,
how many this, how many that,
I looked in my pocket and found
the key, I twisted it round, and it said
hello to me, a little woofle of acknowledgement,
I said, “Away with the rozzers!”,
and there were now no cops,
“Fetch me my driving licence!”
a gleaming card of freedom appeared in my hand…
Of course the picture has to look like a holiday mugshot.
Clutch, accelerator, I know the tricks of the trade,
and I give it a little woofle back in admiration.
The engine noise a sonorous symphony of star-bound joy,
the astonishing thrust driving us up to the atmosphere,
along those winding B-roads of unbarred dexterity,
feel the rear wheels lift off, the exhaust pop and fart childishly,
and the car talking back to me. It speaks like Othello,
we chat through the milky paradise of dreams.
Away we sped, into the sky, up into the racetrack
that everyone knows is in heaven…