By George J. Kimble
Dark cloudy days, weather constantly drizzling
Garage door open slightly swaying
Yellow light shaft extending, piercing
Rock beat barely discerning
Sand paper scruffing, syncopating
Images inside wispy, moving
Old Corvette on stands, posing
Dust filled atmosphere unsettling
Hours stacked upon hours, ticking
Evenings and weekends, passing
Calendar pages slowly flipping
Bitter season begrudgingly changing
Scent of solvents, emanating.
Gray primed body, anticipating,
Compressor droning, endlessly cycling,
Nozzle spraying, menacingly hissing,
Glaze appearing, tape unmasking,
Metallic clanking, chromium bolting,
Rubber bouncing, finally rolling
Roll up chattering, slowly opening
Sunshine glaring, completely dazzling
Reflections eye feeding, shamelessly glistening
Gestures satisfying, increasingly beaming
Darkest season expired, fruitfully bursting
New life emerging, Spring time gleefully showing
By George J. Kimble
Dank darkened rain slicked streets
People live down here you wouldn’t want to meet
Slowly
cruising, looking for an elusive address
Lock the doors; put up the window glass
Udn udn
Finally, there on the right, a hand painted sign
The building and roll up door don’t look too benign
Then appears a man with his hat all askew
Yelling, “What’s up, you found us didn’t you!”
Udn udn
Sliver of light appears at the bottom of the door
Crossed checkered flags painted on the warehouse floor
There is another man with a scraggly beard
My whole body is shaking; I’m feeling sort of weird
Udn udn
He comes up and taps on the window pane
I think I need a shrink to examine my brain
I pop open the door and try not to fret
That scraggly guy is slowly circling my Vette
Udn udn
I say, “Man this looks like a chop shop”
I also hope he doesn’t think I’m a cop
There are cars of all models and makes
A thirty-two Chevy exposing disc brakes
Udn udn
A TPI engine hangs on a hoist
A ‘65 Vette body with paint still moist
Neatly arranged tools all shinny and clean
Spotless walls and everything in between
Udn udn
I spy a dyno and a jig for a frame
I feel better; I’m glad that I came
I give him my keys and admonish, “Take care of my baby!”
He says, “The Vette will be restored in three months, Maybe!”
Udn udn
Time goes by like a galloping Tortoise
Everything is done with precision and purpose
The body is finished and baked out for hours
The engine is rebuilt and dyno-ed at awesome horsepower
Udn udn
This Corvette is really going to go!
It’s so perfect it could win any show!
It’s hard to believe, in the bowels of the city
There is a place that converts hulks into something so pretty.
Udn udn
Now if you are out cruising around
And you find yourself in the seedy part of town
You may see UDN UDN scrawled upon a door
Have no fear, You know, what that stands for
Udn udn; udn udn udn
By George J. Kimble
She sets there cool and aloof as a distant star
She draws in admirers from afar
She stands out
above the rest
She poses so statuesque
Brightest hues adorn her skin so smooth
Everyone recognizes her beauty is so true
Yet there is such pity, I can tell
For the adorer of this Belle
Everyone knows the power she does possess
But alas no man will ever test
or coax her to snarl or gyrate
That essence of force she must only emanate
Yet in her youth she did often embark
Upon long sojourns into the dark
With sensuous motion portent of bliss
A careless abandoned flowing tryst.
Still time and distance showed their strain
And her motive force wretched with pain
Stressed, cracked, aged, and spirit degenerated
Her potent youth, she longed to have rejuvenated
Then as if guided by divine presence’s hand
A youthful restoration was began.
Many hours and days would pass forelorned
As bit by bit each iota was reformed.
Now in stillness of darkened bay
She awaits a judgment day
Then under veil she often goes
Upon a chariot in motionless repose
And whenever she has arrived
Her every wish is to be alive
To flare up and bellow loudly
To express her prowess proudly
Her benefactor, His fortune spent,
Now must take resolute content
Every honor he does record
The fruits of his labors are his reward
Like the phoenix from the ash arisen
This ’69 Corvette will never be driven
Because she has become so esteemed
She must rein forever as the Trailer Queen
By George J. Kimble
They gather there upon the green
Polishing and waxing their favorite machine
They labor intensely, over every detail they bother
The owners all act like expectant fathers
Their babies are groomed and pampered and cuddled
Heaven forbid they should encounter a puddle
They prefer the muscle cars of the past
It’s such a pity they never again will go fast
Then appear some guys with badges on their chest
They are the ones who decide which beauty is best
They circle and curtsey, eyeing every aspect
They jot down notes of each little defect
Then crowds gather with green envy upon their faces
Evoked youthful memories, their mind retraces
They mention Uncle Chuck’s or Cousin Jim’s
He was a character, but the girls all liked him
They revel in the power of their youthful bliss
They tell their kids they used to have one just like this,
Except theirs was another color and was only a six
And for a fleeting second the kid dreams that the Corvette is his
Now the owner’s smile is wide and brimming
Because he was able to sense what the kid was dreaming
Tires were smoking and the engine was thunder
His eyes were wide and filled with wonder
Crowds will walk up and cast broad smiles
Mentally transported through time and across many miles
The hours on the field pass with a flash
The time for the trophies has come at last
The owners gather with excited anticipation
Hoping their baby is given great recognition
Regardless of judgment each owner is grinning
It’s the moments, the people that are much more than winning
