To Motors (A Golden Shovel of Kipling’s ‘To Motorists’)

the engine roars, so powerful, so great
I envision myself behind the wheel of my own little goblin
at a glance, it steals my gaze, its curves playing tricks on my eyes
this is the car, the one I want and need and
will have, its windows not yet cracked, its leather not yet gluey
the yet not faded steering wheel, fitting perfectly in my hands

one day, just like me, it will age, and decay, and degrade, and
leave behind only its memory in our minds and souls
but for this moment, this first moment, my mind is enslaved
because I need to feel the engine roar, deep to my core, to
hear, like the cracking of my bones, the crisp shift of the gears
so I turn the key, smelling the vigor under the hood, and
I go, because today this ride is cooler than the coolest bands