by Kurt Brown
It's another age, one
in which
an acquisition—dryer,
t.v., fridgidaire—
brings people running,
struck
with post-war glut,
still hungry
from the long
Depression.
We're all there,
waiting
in the yard to see the
Olds
my father bought
straight
off the showroom
floor. Our smiles
flicker in chrome,
stretch
sideways on the bumper
to express
our joy. The women too
crowd
close, sniff plush
leather seats,
run fingers over
plastic trays
and handles to exclaim
it's so beautiful!
while neighbors crush
to ogle
tinted glass, sporty
visor
beetle-browed across
the windshield.
We shuffle up to
fondle tires, pop
the trunk and wiggle
in,
then skid across
upholstery
on our buttocks. It
seems we're rich,
my parents happy,
still young.
Its summer. Voices
filter
through our trellis,
mowers
drone as light
rebounds across the hood.
When the others leave,
I slither up behind
the wheel, gaze into
its clear
transparent hub,
wonder
at the blue metallic
background
set with stars, Saturn
with its chrome rings
shining.
Right there: I'm
sitting right there.
In all these years, I
haven't moved.