2007 Malibu

After I’m home from Saturday tennis

and soaking deep in the bathtub on my back,

it occurs to me

that one reason our tennis today

was even sweeter than usual was

that I heard Warren talking at the net with Hugh

about the new Chevy Malibu he’d rented last weekend to drive up to Portsmouth

(where his parents are buried up from the river on the side of a hill),

about how fine that car was—

how with just the slightest touch you were doing an easy, absolutely silent 85.

And it occurs to me how hungry I’ve been for American cars to make their comeback, 

that when it comes right down to it,

I want my next car made by men and women who live not far from where I live,

and whose names I always pronounce right the first time

and not Japanese ones my tongue’ll never get attached to. 

It’s not that I want a single Japanese to have it bad. 

I don’t. 

Whatever their names are—and however they’re supposed to be said—

I want them to experience God’s abundance daily—

Whoever their God is—

even if He’s fat. 

But I want us—USA Americans—to make the best cars again.

It’s somehow seems to me to be our right. 

Let them make the best sushi. 

Let sushi be their thing. 

Isn’t that okay?  

Reid Bush: 7/07 (c)

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