a poem by Jack Donahue
Zachariah, look! I tell you It is Elijah’s chariot coming down the hill. His body will rest between the cushioned rails Lined with velvet as plush as the pillow Upon which his head must lie. The wide whitewall tires will be washed clean again Before the sun-drenched trip to the heavens And the winged angel upon the hood will hold That victory wreath with outstretched arms Charging up one hill and down the other. The strips of gold that line the chassis vents Will drive the engine to its ultimate power As the seraphim and cherubim songs inside Embrace his soul in the harmony of the universe.
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