I never cared much for car talk, But when he speaks, I'm intrigued, And I don't know why.
Most men speak in tones that imply I don't know anything, Can't understand simple machines, Have never seen an engine block, And just want to watch as they talk. But he is genuinely fascinated With systems and forces, And wants to share. His passion consumes me, And I listen, hoping to learn.
On switchbacking forest roads, Over potholed washboard, By steep cliff dropoffs, My head swims with emergency "what ifs" But not with him. He flies over loose gravel And I squeal with euphoric trust and delight. He drives twice the posted speed, And I find myself shamelessly sunk Into a wet seat. He pumps the brakes And I'm bowing to the king, Brazenly hoping that someday He'll flip a carnal handbrake turn, Wondering if he cares enough to show off, Seduced like so many before me By oil, rubber, and gasoline.