the last car

the thirteen year old
chevy impala,
grey with a barbed wire
pin stripe
around it
has only thirty nine thousand
miles on the fogged odometer.
no further than five miles
in any direction
over the decade has been traveled.
bread milk,
kfc
and lottery tickets,
for the most part.
it passes inspection,
although the tires are
close to being shot,
dry rot, the mechanic says.
my father nods.
and says next year.
he's nearly blind, can hardly
hear, but
the car is something.
he can't give it up.
he can't surrender his last means
of escape.
something that's always
been on his mind.