Lotus Position

I see Des’s
gleaming white
‘64 Lotus parked
lonely in the garage,

climb in, pretend
I’m taking it
for a spin,
just for him.

I sniff
the leather,
work the gear lever,

and, recalling my late friend,

the fine shape he was in
hits me like a clout:

an agile bloke
into his seventies,
not a jot of fat
on bones made
for a spitfire cockpit --

his goggles, natty
Harris Tweed cap,
deerskin racing gloves --

oh how I deplore the tire
with too much air
that I’ve become,
the years since
I fitted
dapper behind the wheel
of that sports job I raced about!

I’m heir
to the weight
that runs
in my maternal line,

heir to the challenge
of this seat --
how do I get out?

Christopher T. George