Triumph

Triumph

A soft dawn continued on the train

while I sank into my creased vinyl corner seat and

continued to sink and sink …

abruptly hitting something that pushed back against my denims!

A persistent wayward spring edge sprung a memory of a ’69 Triumph Spitfire

first met in a darkened stuff-strewn garage,

its springs peeked through worn tan leather its supple sheen surrendered to fray,

black dust covered emerald-glazed metal begged my now grimy fingers

for another chance to shine, its oil spot begging me

imploring that there was life to spare and still time to play its top down,

radio blasting, gears popping, road hugging throttle,

for wind to pin her T shirt to her breasts as subtly curved as its fenders

tease her hair all over the place like a model on a fashion shoot.

Who could resist?

I heard.

Oiled, shined, loved, drove, shouted and sang!

Its top down, wind in our faces, we dared the rain to catch us!