Fast cars, old and new, parked along the beach lawns, showing history and shape. A body built to travel, fast or slow they have a curve that eyes follow. A sound of their own, a reason for existing, I’m not a car person but sometimes there is something in the shape that holds the imagination.
The quintessential curves of a feline hunter,
natural markings, the black glass reflections
and silver lines that simply say I’m fast, faster
even than you, prey.
Long doors and leather, closed grille
and self-contained lean back. Smell the pedigree,
the wide lines run through easy curved sinuous
movement of a body as road runner torpedo.
Restrained but ready, a gentle beast of something
hidden, unfettered noise chasing down some lost mile,
going nowhere except for the speed of it.