there was a time
when a man could spend
an afternoon alone
polishing his car.
the hood up, doors open,
the music on.
parked in the shade.
maybe the car is
turquoise or a pearl
grey.
maybe he has a cold
beer in his hand.
maybe he's your father
and he's day dreaming
about his summers
growing up
in nova scotia,
or of a girl
he used to know, her photo
the one you've seen
on his desk,
faded and old.
maybe you watch him from
the window,
elbows on the sill,
admiring him, his car,
the way his blue eyes
twinkle in the autumn
of his youth.
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