So, soon, poetryetcers, you will be corresonding with someone who droves a car not of the previous century. It's bye bye to my Pea Green Corolla which has served me well with 218,000 ks but whose shockers are shot, brakes are gone and to clinch it, the radio no longer works. Hence ...
Buying into
Malaysian Ronnie in his fawn suit,
not worried about getting drips on it in the yard,
has a wife who drives her car to church on Sundays but doesn't,
he says, notice the huge changing speed number on the instrument panel.
Honda’s tank, he whispers, lies under the safest part of the car: the driver’s seat.
String-haired Kiwi Sam, only in the country
a week and with no permanent office yet, has to plonk us
at a white laminex round table and make us tea while he waits
for his boss to come up with some crunched numbers to report back.
Tomorrow, I’ll have a Hatch for you to drive; I’ll do you a great Mazda deal …
Portly Sri Lankan Stuart with wallet swimming
in his huge back pocket speaks of what kids used to do
with a tyre and a stick and now they just ask Where's the ipad;
boasts of the product's turning circle, even as he spins in the back seat.
But it’s All Wheel Drive and fuel economy that’s won me to the schmick Impreza.
Each of them deserved a win I suppose. Each
had a story, a credible product, some leeway to banter.
It rained on all three and they took it on the cloth. My worn-out
trade-in excited a range in mere hundreds when thousands were sailing.
It’s an old, old game with a result assured for both sides: internal gut rumbles.
bw
17.6.13
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