At the corner I’d wait
for chrome fenders to signal closure
to my father’s work day.
When his green care drove up,
I’d climb in as front passenger,
and talk a stream while the poor man
drove and listened.
I remember, too, his gold chariot
spewing green fluid on
its first drive,
and eating pizza when
the sea-green horse
would soon be joining us.
A month before he died,
my father told me he’d soon
have another car.
That next month, in a room of coffins,
some ornate enough
for French kings,
near the back I saw
one blue and metal-fendered
like a Buick or Chevy.
That one I chose.