a poem by Jack Donahue

Zachariah,look! I tell youIt isElijah’s chariot coming down the hill.His bodywill rest between the cushioned railsLined with velvet asplush as the pillowUpon which his head must lie.The wide whitewall tires will bewashed clean againBefore the sun-drenched trip to the heavensAnd the winged angel upon the hood will holdThatvictory wreath with outstretched armsCharging up one hilland down the other.The strips of gold that linethe chassis ventsWill drive the engine to itsultimate powerAs the seraphim and cherubim songsinsideEmbrace his soul in the harmony of the universe.

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