Maybe I'm not the same, all shiny and brand new;
maybe I run more in spurts, coughs, and sputters,
but I do run,
and I go wherever I please, just a bit slower.
This road weary, older chassis,
prefers the peaceful ease of back roads
over super highways;
all the high speed racing of youthful skill.
A 'vintage model' is what I'm called, but it's okay.
I'm comforted by memories of a lifetime's roads;
with a tank full of gas and all the time in the world
I can finally look around and enjoy the ride.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem