Although contorted accordion-style,
he sat proud behind the well-worn steering wheel
of his MG sportster bargain.
“I bought her to restore,” he said, patting the dash.
I cringed as the creaking hinges
of the passenger door allowed me in;
Yet, it was a “little red coupe”, and
I felt so tall and special in my seat.
Revving the engine for effect, then stomping it,
we slung gravel and pealed out the driveway.
Indy 500, here we come; or so we dreamed as
he hammered the accelerator to the floorboard.
I watched the speedometer pass 60, then 70, then…
It didn’t matter we could see the road through the floorboard;
and it didn’t matter we had to shout to be heard above the
roaring bursts of an untuned engine.
We were two against the road.
After a while, I no longer noticed the
vibrations and rumbles of years of neglect,
and I could see his vision as we neared the finish line,
friends and family cheering us on.