Does everyone dream of a car of one's own,
a license to drive, the open road?
Can we survive and never drive?
If so, are we then, only half alive?
A carless nation is hard to conceive.
Such homage's been given this passion,
What matter we've pockmarked the face of our nation
with freeways and parking ramps and gasoline stations,
a tragedy - a travesty -
salute le car - His majesty.
A sweet demeanor, a gentle lamb,
behold a monster, in a traffic jam.
The transmission's shot.
The world has ended.
A fender's bent.
All life's suspended.
They've towed the car.
I think I'll die.
The Grinch stole Christmas.
The car won't start
We lost the game.
I have a flat.
A snowy removal ticket.
Pass the hat!
From here to there and back again
as fast as you can,
as fast as you can.
And when our silly treadmill's done
jump right back on,
I have other wheels now,
attached to a chair,
not quite the kind I'd opt to share
and those same little boys
who played with such glee
with their dinky cars, neath the Christmas tree
are lifting and holding and sheltering me.
They are my shepard's crook,
my song's best hook,
my childhood's favorite picture book,
a trust transferred so easily
from me to them,
from them to me.
Linger lightly on life's distressings.
Sorrow often nurtures blessings.
Find an image to carry
to lift you up,
to see you through.
Mine is my sons as they carry me,
so carefully, so tenderly.
My spirit soars.
I am set free,
to feel, to see,
to truly be.
by Colleen Gordon