my Mistress's ride

i have been thinking and reflecting on how the cars that W/we drive certainly do reflect who W/we are and O/our individual personalities. last week i traded vehicles with my Mistress, as She had some relevant family obligations to take care of out of state.

 She preferred to take my little puddle jumper because it was newer in terms of the engine, had less miles, good gas mileage and was in fairly decent shape. mechanically.

 i'm always eager and happy to be able to please my Mistress, but what i didn't realize was that Her car was just as rebellious, independent, and unconventional as She is. which is by the way. all the things things that i respect and totally adore about Her. She doesn't take patriarchal or misogynistic bullshit from anyone, and neither does Her ride, apparently.

 so, here are some of my observations i noted while driving Her car this past week, in a poem i recently completed. belt Y/yourself in and hang on. it is going to be an interesting drive.

my Mistess's ride
by: pescado

my Mistress's ride ...

 is a chic, sleek, silvergrey, powerful machine,
that clutches the road and slashes through the curves
with low register growls,
on midnight prowls, that frightened and startled me at first.

it's grumbling idle strains, lurches and aches to be released,
at each fading traffic light Her brakes skid with a screech.
and Her engine rumbles suspiciously ... Her headlights dim, with brutal puck
 taunting hatchbacks, sedans and toys with mack trucks,
rumbling in a sinister register that 's akin to, "Get outta My way you little fuck."

i step harder on the brakes to prevent consternation
or a serious engagement of  police confrontation.
but Her ride doesn't care. Her engine purrs with predilection.
as i hear Her v8 shift effortlessly, dominating all at each intersection.

my Daughter reminds me to collar Her beast as it strains to run over
a runner whose slipped on some grease.
i slam on the brakes and Her "Christine", eerily whines, lamenting another opportunity
to spatter, maim or blind.

with just a tap of the accelerator, She easily rockets ahead
i can't seem to control Her... i'm befuddled with dread.
She tears up the freeway, and streaks down the middle
i look down at my pants and see i just piddled.

yet, i feel enveloped and secure in Her mechanical beast.
Her metal frame is sturdy, solid, yet, inside is soft ... cuddly like fleece.
turning to look in the mirror, i try not to stare
but, it's startling, to think that Her trunk has room enough, to hide a body back there.

the beats of Her tunes lull me into a trance
while Her car weaves in and out lanes ... gambling with chance.
an old lady with a walker, with a faded yellow purse, a young boy rides a tri-cycle
both unaware of the hearse, which seems to speed aimlessly, with a mind all Her own
but, then suddenly, the ride is over, and we're finally home.

i struggle to release the key from Her clutch. push down the parkingbrake
and pray with some luck, that She will release the locks on the doors and i will not be missed
oh, please, please, please, for i have to piss.

as i step from the car and lock Her down for the night.
step warily up the walk i am indeed a drenched sight
the last spark of the ignition and Her engine does howl
"i'll snatch you up next time boy". She hisses then growls.