Driving My Mother's Old Retired Car Poem by Ted Sheridan

The price of gasoline at the pump jumped so high;
therein robbing me of my play money, forcing me to eat
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, brown bagged
like an immature child enrolled in secondary school economics.
But being an older white male as I am, successful but
with only an average vertical jump; below that of four dollars a gallon.
I decided to turn in my gas guzzling and expensively leased SUV’s
to drive my aged mother’s old car that had been parked
as she can no longer benefit from the use of its
six cylinder and more efficient to operate, classic styling.
And when I say classic, I mean damn old.
This car is so old that in the year in which it was built
I not only had plenty of hair but my sperm count was still
much higher than the balance in my bank account.
The old car’s paint still shines like diamonds, the leather upholstery
maintains its new car smell; everything works and the engine runs well.
Driving around town with my brown bagged lunch on the
passenger’s seat, I can fully appreciate the appeal of quality
and old time luxury….and the fact that the gas gauge hardly moves…
I think back on a time when mother had two good knees,
two good hips, and two good eyes and she could drive
to the store on her own; where she could buy bread for under
a dollar a loaf, or milk for less than two dollars a gallon. Turkey
was ninety eight cents a pound and ham costs no more than Spam.
Those were the days when the dollar was worth a dollar
and a gallon of gas was cheap….before it made this crazy leap
above and beyond my ability to keep up with the Jones’s.
Reflecting on those good old days when my mom
was just mom and not some old woman who stares out the window
trying to remember where she left her keys….
I am reminded of the two lane streets with their blinking caution lights
as I now look at ten lanes of bumper to bumper, people cussing,
flipping you off at every red and slow changing traffic light
all fully equipped with a camera and a computer’s brain
that will take your picture and promptly mail it to your wife....
if that isn’t a peanut butter sandwich sitting next to you
in the front seat of your mother's old retired car….



2008 © T Sheridan