Old Gold

“I’m out again on my own,
A reflection in the chrome
Of an idle machine
It’s been too long.”

That’s the way an old song goes
Playing through an old speaker
In my redwood garage.

The floor, once clean, now stained
With oil and grime. Memories of evenings, and moments in time.

I spent last weekend on the road,
Among the trees, the water, and the open sky
Lunch came off the roller (and so did I).

I laid on pavement, slept on earth.
A complete picture, painted with old iron and fresh gas.

“One day, my roadster will see these same roads,” I said under my breath.
Not a dream or an idea, but a promise to all who will listen.

Earlier this week, a friend sent a picture of T.
It was old
It was gold
“The genuine article,” so I’m told.
I wonder what it would be like to drive to go get a hamburger.

Another friend called
On my lunch break yesterday, because I had a question about belts.
Measure here
And report back
With your findings.

“Here,” he said. “Let me fire up this V8.”
With receiver cupped on my ear, a healthy flathead spoke—to me—

* __smoothly— *

Then, he walked around the back

Blub
Blubblub
Blub blub

“Flatheads forever.”
And flatheads now, too.
A refreshing thought
On a crisp spring morning.

—JU

Opening photo from the friends at Hop Up