Captivated as I am by this old car —
The immaculate perfection
With which it’s been maintained,
The shining chrome, the texture of its paint —
I think what really draws me,
Though I may just be projecting,
Is a certain innocence, a vulnerability,
If not anxiety,
In the way its headlights are aligned
Beneath chrome brows.
Was that a conscious choice
Of its designer, a reflection of its age,
Or simply an illusion, manufactured
By my own maternal streak?
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