A poem from Bruce Willard, referencing Rambler's legendary folding front seat.
The Rambler, the Sommelier and You
This is where we parked in the rain.
This is where we turned
off the Rambler’s vacuum wipers
and slotted open the windows
to hear the insects of summer.
This is where we folded down the seats
to hear the storm of adolescence.
Afterwards, the Rambler’s roof was a sky of stars -
enough for both of us
although I knew nothing of yours,
or you of mine.
I did not know your favorite color or smell.
But I was a sommelier
just out of school with a new key
and a stash of Mateus, Catawba and Apple Wine
and you were taken by the list
of choices, tasting each
with non-committal patience
and I fumbled with the hardware of my youth.