Guest
My uncle has a country place That no one knows about. He says it used to be a farm Before the Motor Law. And on Sundays I elude the Eyes, And hop the Turbine Freight To far outside the Wire Where my white-haired uncle waits. Jump to the ground As the Turbo slows to cross the borderline. Run like the wind As excitement shivers up and down my spine. Down in his barn My uncle preserved for me an old machine For fifty-odd years. To keep it as new has been his dearest dream. I strip away the old debris That hides a shining car: A brilliant red Barchetta From a better vanished time. We fire up the willing engine Responding with a roar. Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime. Wind In my hair Shifting and drifting Mechanical music Adrenaline surge... Well-weathered leather, Hot metal and oil, The scented country air. Sunlight on chrome, The blur of the landscape, Every nerve aware. Suddenly ahead of me Across the mountainside A gleaming alloy air-car Shoots towards me, two lanes wide. I spin around with shrieking tires To run the deadly race Go screaming through the valley As another joins the chase. Drive like the wind Straining the limits of machine and man. Laughing out loud with fear and hope I’ve got a desperate plan. At the one-lane bridge I leave the giants stranded at the riverside. Race back to the farm To dream with my uncle at the fireside.
