buying the new car

what can I do to get you
to buy this car today, buddy,
the salesman says,
walking across the gravel lot
in his alligator shoes.
he leans into you with his kung pao
chicken lunch breath,
putting a greasy
paw around your shoulders.
you married, buddy?
no? single.
perfect. this car will
have women all over you.
but it's a minivan.
he winks at you and chuckles.
travel with me, he says,
stretching his arm,
pointing his ringed fingers
out towards
the setting sun
that melts over the interstate.
travel with me to the 60's.
tell me what you see.
I dunno. well,
I see a lava lamp in this van.
I see romance.
we gut this baby,
we rip out the seats and put
a thick postropedic mattress
in the back on top of some
maroon shag carpet.
maybe a black light
with day glow posters
taped to the walls.
hang some straps from the ceiling
to hold onto
in case things get crazy.
I see a quadraphonic
sound system, and a wet bar.
maybe some flowered curtains.
who likes curtains?
that's right buddy,
chicks do. and you know what
else they like,
candles and wine.
we can have candle holders
in each corner,
and an ice cooler for your
adult beverages.
are you with me?
can you feel it?
you my brother will be the man.
what say we go in and do
the paperwork on this baby.
he slaps you hard on the back,
curling his arm around you.
you a veteran?