Zero Percent Interest Free Crisis

Only seventeen thousand five hundred
days on the face, on the clock, on the watch,
excellent condition from start to fruition,
acid free pages still lustrous, still radiant,
alternatively draped, full slim trim,
three previous sensitive lady proprietors.
Clean, for all that exposed duration,
mechanically sound mind,
bodywork may require further attention,
nothing a dash of sun and chablis
could not remedy, in no hurry.
Performance as sleak as newfangled,
engine capacity, a tumbler filled mackinlays,
maximum speed, nine and a half seconds,
motor test to aged person’s annuity –
two thousand thirty nine …  decounting.
Completed with optional assets,
floating, intangible and circulating,
period sixties attire;
twelve strung,  beard and  Lawrentian bush hat –
would suit bookishly cerebral enthusiast.
No worrying meeting hanging,
fluid in social encounter,
only challenge, prising from housing.
Musical life-support, underscore orkestra,
neither hawker nor haggler,
rather trainer, or gatherer,
single charge a dangerous glimpse, a glance
a wink, of her green amber highlight,
that deliberate brush of soft hem,
or similar close offer –  near tender.




Martin Ferguson




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