The Last Muscle Car

THE LAST MUSCLE CAR

The first time
that I glanced out the kitchen window,
and saw the dawn's raspberry rays dancing
over its long hood,
and down its fastback,
it stunned me;
my 1973 Mustang,
muscled black on black,
resting buff on raised-letter radials
and chrome magnums,
its polished sleekness stretched skin-tight
over thick channeled Detroit steel.

On city streets
and the vastness of freeways,
I had to constantly reign it in.
Yes, it turned heads
like any other muscle car,
but I noticed as I caught glimpses
of it gliding across the face of glass buildings,
that it had something more than pumped iron,
something unique and elegant.
Pantara-bred,
like it could speak five languages,
and only on the Autobahn
could it facilitate it's throughbred grace
and top speed.
In traffic it seemed to slice like a shark
midst schools of lesser vehicles.

At twilight
I was overcome with euphoria,
dropping down through the darkness of tall trees
in my raven black cruiser,
scattering fat gravel with thick radials,
embracing the stardust that winked deep
into its ebon wax.

Glenn Buttkus, 1988