the car

the first car.
the maroon Camaro.
with baby
moons. six cylinders
of which
maybe four worked.
the radio turned high
as smoke billowed
out of its
rusted tail pipe.
the car that filled
up with water
when it rained.
gallons would slosh
around the trunk.
you drilled a hole
in the bottom,
for a drain.
the car you lost
your virginity in,
the car you
took to the drive-in,
hoping for another
chance, the windows
sweating, her feet
on the dashboard.
the car you drove
to college,
the unbalanced
wheels rattling
your young bones,
your long hair
cascading out the window.
the car you drove
to the ocean city
on your honeymoon,
then drove to the courthouse
six months later
to get the divorce
decree.
the car you brought
your new born son home
in with the car seat,
the stroller, a box
of toys.
the car you picked
up your mother in,
to take her to hospital
and to the senior home
where she waters a plant
in the window,
watching you drive away.
the car you are driving
now. telling you
when to turn,
giving you all the music
that was in the other
cars throughout
the years. the new car
with that new car smell.
heated seats.
hop in let's go
for a spin.