Two cars, both alike in dignity,
In scuzzy Marlborough, where we lay our scene,
Two machines rolled off the same factory floor,
Hardly different, except in name,
A tweak, here and there,
A white stripe here, a taillight there,
Something internal different from the other.
Minute, yet grand enough to cause those
That care to believe one superior to the other.
While the C280 protests it’s worthiness
To, at least, equal the C300.
A cursory glance tells the passersby the two are but the same:
Black sedan, silver; same decal
Only closer inspection, as through the
Cafe window, shows the subtle
Differences. So subtle, but great enough.
The owner of the right
Tediously argues it’s merits and the
Shortcomings of the left.
While weary hearers heave heavy sighs.
She who arrived on foot finds the conversation
One-sided and boring. She takes up her
Knitting, begins her audiobook,
Drowns out the empty, mechanical details.
Knit one, purl one, while
Neil Gaiman sonorously tells her tales.