Odometer Poem by Max Reif
Odometer
I remember how
my new Mazda 626
flew over the road
as I watched the odometer
turn over its first mile:
my car had punched in
on its life's time clock.
Five years later 99,000
more miles have turned,
imperceptibly, one by one:
you hardly feel a thing each time,
yet now the unholstery's matted
with some congealed,
unidentifiable stuff;
the frame is slightly
dented in a couple places;
some mold smell
wafts up from under a seat;
and I've had to throw
the carpets away altogether.
How did all this happen, I wonder?
And then the thought occurs:
from the moment of birth,
our bodies' meters
are running, too.
I agree with the last two comments. A truth for the 21st centuary. Hugs Anna xxx
A wonderful piece Max. There is a tapestry feel to this in that the words feel like the stiched ensuring that the whole does not fall apart. The metaphor is outstanding; at first simple but then I think that the final couple of lines introduce a feeling of unexpectedness.
No strong odours from you I trust Max, but yes I understand and connect to this one, the thought of mortality, a deep discussion I see before me, so for now I will just say I love the refreshing feel to this one Love duncan X
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/28/2024 1:44:21 PM # 1.0.0.1119
I really liked this reflection, Max. I have some 'unidentifiable stuff' that has gathered as well. Too bad we can't reset our odometers!