Poem: Bitchin’ ‘Bout the Past

Nostalgia ought to be the name of my home town, because I spend so much time there.

Bitchin’ ‘Bout the Past

You used to be able to look at a Packard
or a Cadillac
or even one of Henry’s damn Fords
and know exactly what model it was
from three blocks away
on a rainy evening
without even squinting

But elegance and grace
and two-toned summer shoes
are out
Gone
And all the Cary Grants today
have to pass
in hundred dollar jeans
And they say we’re making progress

Cars all shaped like bars of soap,
sixty thousand dollar bars,
slippery in the wind I guess,
boring
Good to drive, but my god,
where is Fred Astaire
and a long sweep of fender
Ginger
and something worth a second look

The world’s a poorer place
without the ‘40 Continental,
road houses, big bands
and crickets on a summer night
Thin wheels in Bogart hands,
long hoods,
suicide doors,
tops down and passions up