Ode to a ‘Cruiser

Giddy bumpy ride

Gifted by lifted coils n’ springs,

Carelessly augmented tyres.

Straight line driving requires constant steering,

James Stewart at wheel’s helm to a tram-tracked Oldsmobile.

Hope for straight roads, of little or no descent.

Pray no thought or thing attempts to cross its headstrong path.

 

Nostalgic Fisher Price oversteering,

Sound-tracked to ‘Wheels on the Bus’.

Needs fervent focus on rules of the oft road.

Deco and dash, distraction devoid driving at its darn-dest.

Empty space for FM radio luxury,

Empty tab buttons for who knows what,

Stuffs Mike the Mechanic (Cam from Sales knows nought neither).

 

Heat pump, aircon? Nup.

Driving to Antarctic, Outback interior?

Solutions to most climes, presently installed;

Warm – window part-down, jacket off,

Hot – window full-down, strip to singlet,

Cold – window up, jacket on (beanie optional),

Frosty – opt for wife’s warm-seated European.

 

Passenger and driver sides,

Cleverly independent of each other.

Each door-lock, window, side-mirror,

Answerable only to itself,

Actionable only if you’re sitting within arm’s reach of each.

No chance of digital hijack

From some remote Huawei hacker.

 

A stretch for short legs in clinched jeans,

Small jump and arm-sling,

A slip-sliding embarkation to the cockpit.

Little purchase gained on shiny poly seats, matless plasticky floor.

Two and a half bench-seater. Pity the half.

Knees knocked, clocking into second and fourth.

Ankles clipped flicking all wheels into action.

 

Phoney Spotify-ed sounds cranked past 11

Will not out-loud

The rattle n’ thrum of this old new ute.

Its sounds quadraphonic;

Crepitation of post factory tray,

Air compressor incursions through any door or window crack,

Combo thrill of V8 grumble, turbo trill.

 

Spare tyre, too big for itself, clogs the tray.

Odours fortified by the cab, miasmic;

A cornucopia of burnt and unburnt fuel,

Grease, ages of mud, latent rust,

Sands, and seawater, of time,

Hiding leftover snacks, leached liquids,

200,000 kilometres of BO and digestion.

 

Finger pointed up,

Inclining forwards at an amble,

Secret handshake to club 79 Cruiser bus drivers.

Only they grasp the churned mud pleasure,

The protracted parking pain.

Haven’t loved anything this much

Since I first kissed my wife.

© Dan Buckley 2020

Dan Buckley is a part-time farmer, casual dad and full-time writer. He is currently working on a second book of poems and his first novel. A a proud Huon Valley local, he contributes to Huon Valley News. When not writing, he pulls out weeds, picks up animal poo, feeds chooks, chases miniature ponies and brushes oils through his beard.