Well, I just realized, it’s about time
for this car of mine to be Bar Mitzvah’d.
Actually, despite its thirteen years
it is more like an old man with stents and grafts
and hip replacements,
what with new brake-pads,
and a refurbished fuel line,
the old one having got plugged,
and some fresh stuffing in the seats
so my wife won’t complain of her aching back,
and when I take it out for a run
I don’t have to stop so often
to rest mine.
Even the motor, after its last overhaul,
performed by that team of mechanics
who call themselves
The Auto Doctors of America
seems to have perked itself up considerably,
pulling at my lead on the accelerator
the way my two year old dog pulls on his.
Truthfully, I used to resent the seemingly
excessive fuel it consumed;
But really, it’s like a growing boy,
reaching adolescence, coming into his own.
So when we arrive at the community garage,
and heads turn,
it’s like that young boy marching
up to the pulpit in a synagogue,
psyched, primed, prepared, to sing
that whole megillah of prayers, and it too is ready,
ready to join the community of mature automobiles.
Yes, it makes me proud,
sitting here and feeling its engine’s throb.
Perhaps I’ll even get it washed.