You turf-ripping roadster tearing toward
curved lanes, rocket of sun-slick steel,
you’ve shown the youngsters speed who wheel
a battered Ford.
You’ve unnerved nearly rebellious wheels
to slink aside to the curb and wait
while your worn rubber fumes and squeals
and greased gears grate.
You’ve shown us style, a champion, dared
us on to recklessness, called us child,
roared at our bumpers, highbeams bared,
no doubt smiled
smug in your vinyl, and screamed from sight.
Well, enjoy your engine, friend, while it’s hot.
You’ll be found, I’m sure—some road, some night
when it’s not.
You outsprint a tortoise-shrewd ambition.
We can’t compete. You win the cup.
Unless you blaze in demolition
we’re runners-up,
too cool to catch your acclamation.
Our instincts warned us off the brink.
You opted for acceleration.
Don’t blink.
