A pocketful of loose change
in the unused ash tray
vibrates against
an admission button
from an air show of long ago.
That foreign buzz somehow nicely complements
the hum of the air conditioning and the purr
of the Detroit motor under the hood,
underscored by a snappy Jazz tune that
floats out of the factory speakers
like the soundtrack to the latest car
commercial hawking its wares.
Sure-grip Goodyear rubber
cruises along winding asphalt
at seventy-five miles per hour as you
enjoy the beautiful scenery scrolling by,
while groups of suicidal insects
throw themselves at your front windshield.
