They don't make them anymore
and when, yesterday, he drove
it to town as a trade-in he felt
like a sentimental old fool,
remembering the rites
of passage the green
machine had witnessed . . .
more . . . been part of --
his daughter's first time
behind the wheel as she
lurched them through the parking
lot at Sears, the ride home from
the hospital giddy with relief
that the doctor had said
"remission," the drive home from
the cemetery eight months later.
Before he walked away he placed
his hand on the hood and willed
himself to recall laughter
and remembered the day they
picked up the puppy at the shelter,
it's excitement so uncontrollable
it peed all over his shoes. He
drove them home barefoot and happy.
Good-bye he said aloud and looked
around quickly to make sure
nobody saw or heard.
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