I had an Uncle Doug who,
every Sunday,
would grumble and grunt and fuss
his way into his bright green
’73 convertible Corvette,
so that he could drive it around
the neighborhood and feel young again.
He’s dead now, though.
Stroke killed him last year.
And now the car sits under a tarp
in my aunt’s garage.
Sad how that is.
LOU RASMUS
big book guy
LOU RASMUS 
25 responses to “Uncle Doug”
So true
LikeLiked by 1 person
thanks Bill
LikeLike
Yes, it is.
LikeLiked by 1 person
such a waste!
LikeLiked by 2 people
it is
LikeLiked by 1 person
I hope one day that car can make someone else happy & feel young =]
LikeLiked by 1 person
maybe one day
LikeLiked by 1 person
Go get that car Lou!
LikeLiked by 2 people
i think i should
LikeLike
Sad but ,exactly why don’t you get the car…..you and her free on the motorway ……think about it😎
LikeLiked by 1 person
that could be dangerous haha
LikeLiked by 1 person
What fun without a bit of danger😉😎
LikeLiked by 1 person
right on
LikeLiked by 1 person
I was going to weep, but I had a drink instead.
LikeLiked by 1 person
cheers
LikeLiked by 1 person
My best friend’s grandfather had a convertible for the same reason. I think they sold it when he died, though.
LikeLiked by 1 person
that’s too bad
LikeLike
In memory of your Uncle Doug, why couldn’t you take the car out for a spin some Sunday? I think it would be a creative way to honor his memory and drive a fun car. -Jill
LikeLiked by 1 person
very good idea. next weekend
LikeLiked by 1 person
If you do a new poem about driving your Uncle’s car you should definitely take pictures.
LikeLiked by 1 person
will do
LikeLiked by 1 person
Immediately reminded me of Rush’s “Red Barchetta”
“Red Barchetta”
My uncle has a country place
That no one knows about
He says it used to be a farm
Before the Motor Law
And on Sundays I elude the eyes
And hop the Turbine Freight
To far outside the Wire
Where my white-haired uncle waits
Jump to the ground
As the Turbo slows to cross the borderline
Run like the wind
As excitement shivers up and down my spine
Down in his barn
My uncle preserved for me an old machine
For fifty odd years
To keep it as new has been his dearest dream
I strip away the old debris
That hides a shining car
A brilliant red Barchetta
From a better vanished time
I fire up the willing engine
Responding with a roar
Tires spitting gravel
I commit my weekly crime //
LikeLiked by 1 person
wow. very similar. i like it
LikeLike
Sad indeed.
LikeLiked by 1 person
that’s how it goes
LikeLiked by 1 person