ELEGY FOR AN OLDSMOBILE

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.

UNSINGABLE

Why does no one write poems
about traffic? Is the subject

too prosaic, too boring, unworthy
of artistic expression? Or is it

(as I suspect) because the dread
that inhabits us on the highway

encased as we are in
wheeled boxes of steel and

glass trying to keep ourselves
inured to the possibility of being

hurled into oblivion by the semis
on I-81 is too frightening to

comtemplate even by the most
daring of soul searchers?

ANTIETAM BATTLEFIELD

We drive around, stop,
get out, read the markers,
scan the hills, soak in stillness
invaded only by bird arias.
At Burnsides Bridge I get goofy,
become a Union soldier, grab
my 14 year old stepson,
pretend to stab him, throw
him off the bridge into the water.
He laughs a little, so do I,
but it feels foolish and forced,
unworthy of the place,
where it is said the creek
ran red with blood.

DEFERMENT

We made a tape recording
when she was seven or eight.
We'd memorized "Casey
at the Bat." We decided
to do it with her saying the
first two lines then me saying
the next two and so on. It
went well. We had to turn
off the recorder only once
or twice. If you'd like to
hear it, I can go get . . .

Sure, I understand.
It's getting late.

Let me just say what amazed
me was how she imitated
the way I said it when we
were learning it and then
at some places added her own
unique touch like when she
says "a sneer curled Casey's
lip" and made the p at
the end of "lip" pop like a
cork flying off a bottle of
champagne. Or the . . .

Yes, yes. Of course.
Maybe the next time you stop by.