Sraight from: Garage by Albert Drake I Through your yellowed glass I see darkly II Coasting a sturdy black shoe on high wire toes you primly ford a new epoch III You rise from flatland square sides round at the edges curved premonition of speed hunched on the roadless cornfield in attitudes of speed of death American Gothic IV O thin men of Dearborn why do you image golden machines? do you not see how the abrupt short cowl bobbed deck arched fenders elaborate simplicity V The classic directness of straight lines like a good highway of beauty of craft cunningly simple unpretentious naive American Innocent VI You celebrate the century speed technology the moon the assertion of a marrige mating body and chassis industry and life an assembly line art VII They don't build'em like that anymore VIII Circulating tubes cooling fins the mesh of years IX Out of the simple years blazing crimson as blood your flanks rear in rust X Top bows curve like crutches crippled sagging springs sprung seats suspended lines of stasis XI Four flat tires the air of 1929 exhaled stasis wheels going nowhere XII But I am thinking of a wheeling moon untroubled skies simple flatlands and in the rumbleseat they are drinking warm beer rumbling XIII I see you at some curb paint satin smooth pitted radiator shell shiny and in each hubcap the world behind leans out Al Drake Copyright 1980
In a world of hot rod wannabes, Al is the real deal. Or maybe not in some eyes, as he is (I believe) a retired professor of English at Michigan State (i.e., school is not a verb). Mike
The Jalopy Journal
