Cars · Poetry

Cadillac Codger

Chiffon-scarfed wife laughs

Cadillac convertible

Driver smokes cigar

Driving home from the shore this past weekend, we were passed by a fantastic vintage Cadillac convertible, top down, driver puffing a cigar with a huge watch on his muscular, tanned arm. His long white hair was thick, wavy, well-kept. When we passed the car a few miles later, we had the full view of a very happy pair enjoying a Sunday drive.

During a long walk with my dog jammed with sniffing and greeting other dogs, I played with haikus of the memory, making creative adjustments for a succinct, turbo-charged version of what I saw and how I felt. Here is the reality versus what I wrote:

  • The woman on the passenger side was blonde. She stared straight ahead, helmet hair controlled by a velvet headband. There was no telling if she was his wife, his girlfriend, his secret lover. I like to think they’re married and enjoying a drive in their treasured car before dinner in a restaurant on the river.
  • The car we saw was a profound, proud deep red with brighter chrome, bigger white wall tires, in pristine condition. This picture captures about the right era even though the color and condition are wrong. He drove the car like it made a statement about him and what he had made of his life — beautiful woman at his side, watch worth tens of thousands on his arm, full head of hair, enjoying a sunny, warm day with the top down in a vintage treasure.
  • This last line is true. He was puffing a big fat cigar with a smile on his face.
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