Femme Fatale
Oct 31 2022
The steering pulled left.
It took forever to stop
on threadbare brakes.
And the feeble engine
which had lost compression
never was much good.
But the old car was beautiful
in a vintage sort of way.
Sheet metal
from the heyday of Detroit
lovingly buffed and waxed,
and a plush interior
that matched the mushy suspension.
Who cared
it was unsafe at any speed;
no seatbelts, airbags, padded dash,
steering wheel
made of plastic and steel
that was uncollapsible,
no matter the impact
no matter how fast.
Dated windows
of first generation safety glass,
chrome bumpers
that were just added weight.
What we sacrifice for beauty.
Like the gorgeous woman
who turns every head
in whatever room she enters,
and whom all men desire.
If not buffed and waxed, exactly,
then immaculately made up;
a fashion model
sculpted and coiffed
and dressed to kill.
No matter how cold and shallow,
how mercenary
her soul.
She is seated beside you
heading down the highway
in that vintage car,
a trophy
for all to admire.
The steering pulls left
and you stop pulling back,
straddling the centre line
on the 2-lane road.
And for some reason
give it gas, as well,
as if your right foot
had a mind of its own.
So the faster and faster you go,
staring into the distance
with a glassy-eyed look,
impervious
to oncoming traffic
veering around the car.
As if no harm can come
under her halo of pulchritude.
And when horns blare and fists are raised
you take it in stride;
a well-deserved salute
to your fine eye for beauty.
Why move?
After all, you've earned your entitlement.
And a man like you
can afford to be magnanimous;
the envy
which is perfectly understandable
you so graciously excuse.
Malcolm Gladwell's latest piece in the New Yorker was about Jack Welch, the notorious
former CEO of General Electric. This is how the article ended, and on reading it this poem immediately started to write itself (the quote is from. William D. Cohan's 2020 biography Power Failure):
They got into Welch’s Jeep Cherokee, and Welch refused to put on his seat belt, so the warning bell chimed the whole ride back.
“Off he drove. When he got to the left turn out of the Nantucket Golf Club, onto Milestone Road, he did something odd. Instead of keeping to the right side of Milestone Road, as other American drivers do, he decided to drive in the middle of the road, with the Cherokee straddling the yellow line. Needless to say, the drivers coming toward us on Milestone were freaking out. One after another, they all pulled off to the right onto the grassy edge of the street, giving Jack full clearance to continue driving down the middle of the road. He didn’t seem to notice.” ♦
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