This look captures my father’s 1956 Chevy
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.
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