"What would it take to put you in this Taurus
today?" he asked. Of course I'd seen it coming:
the manager's refrain, the timeworn chorus
that follows every salesman's pitch. The humming
of showroom lights accompanied each solo—
"Add GPS?" "Extended warranty?"—
while I stood firm; the price would have to go low
enough for my bass-line frugality.
But with a tenor's tenderness, the car
sang out its charms: a velvet V-6 drone,
that new-car smell, and not one ding to mar
its shiny finish. I took out a loan,
and now I can't buy tickets to the Met;
I bought a power seat to years of debt.