the eight o'clock date

you are conscious

of the warm

water in the bucket, the suds,

the sponge

and rag

floating.

slowly, as if in a trance

you work your

way around the car,

wet with the hose,

scrubbing off the winter

dirt,

the salt, the mud.

tire to tire,

around

you go.

and then the arc of

water,

spraying with thumb

pressed against the copper

hole.

it's May at last and

you're sixteen again

in the sun with your shirt

off,

drying off the fender

with your mother's best

towels,

the hood,

the trunk and roof.

the windows,

thinking about the girl

you're going to

pick up at eight o'clock

for the Saturday

show.