Poems
Cars
New Yorkers will never understand
the power derived from driving
a new car home
in my case a new used car
this time a 2013 Hyundai Sonata
midnight blue whose speedometer climbs
to 160 miles per hour
an arousing number
perhaps beyond my reach.
Before this a green 98 Saturn
a utilitarian vehicle from
the last millennium
more plastic than metal
nevertheless a sturdy companion
who survived her share of bumps
and bruises navigating Hoboken’s
surly stop and go streets.
Previously an 87 Chrysler LeBaron
A car with awful reviews
in Consumer Reports
that provided the smoothest ride
of my working class life
until she got broadsided by a Mack truck
on a Harlem Street on the way to work.
Me thinking as the bulldog smashed into my side
“so this is what it’s like to die,
hope it doesn’t hurt too much,”
a crash I walked away from
unscathed in a state of shock.
Which was preceded by a 1982
Buick Regal nothing but trouble
that I should have been wary of
upon purchase from a fortune teller
In the Portuguese section of Newark
a natural low rider without any modifications,
eventually stolen by wayward teens which
wound up being a windfall paying back
in insurance more than the car was
ever worth.
There was the 1980 AMC Eagle
Station wagon with faux wood panels
which took Caroline and I cross country
that had uncontrollable 4 wheel drive
which kicked into gear at the oddest times
and was constantly blowing tires on the
NJ Turnpike for no discernable reason.
Which followed a yellow 70 something Datsun
we named Roadkill
because it was in a constant state
of death throws and rattles
emitting a sulphurous stream of black smoke
every time it accelerated through a toll booth
rusted through its chassis yet refused to die.
There was the 67 Lincoln Continental
a tank disguised as an automobile
with suicide doors that comfortably
carried 8 inebriated teenagers to the
1975 Dumont High School Senior Prom
and once miraculously cruised from Amherst
to New Jersey on a half tank of gas
though it got about 6 miles a gallon.
And the 62 Studebaker that had a stone
instead of a carburetor that I used to deliver
Uncle Franks Pizzas in high school until
it caught fire while driving on Madison Avenue
that the volunteer fire department
had to put out after only 3 months
of care and ownership.
Which was a replacement for my first
love a white 66 Impala that I bought
for 40 dollars because it had been hit
by a garbage truck and was mangled
around the trunk but drove until the transmission
went a few months into my ownership
which I nevertheless drove only
in reverse through the streets
of my hometown oblivious to the cops
or the basic laws of physics.
Which I bought to ease the pain
of the loss of my 64 Rambler
with push button transmission
which was never really mine but my Dad’s
bought only a month before he died
and was totaled by my mother during
an ill advised driving lesson
with my brother in law Leo
who was far from a great driver
and was promised to me in theory
when I came of age and which
I surreptitiously drove out the driveway
late nights after Mom was asleep
to pick up my buddies and the Diaz twins
in stoned teen fuck it all New Jersey abandon
that New Yorkers would never understand.
My Dad’s many clunkers none more memorable
than the red 48 Chevy with the chrome hood ornament
a naked goddess with voluptuous mid-century
All-American breasts that Steve Martorelli and I would kiss
every morning on our way to school between
first and third grades for good luck
and because it was a thing to do
who we named Minerva after the mermaid in Diver Dan
planting the seeds of unconditional love
between this man and my newest, my bluest
my darling set of wheels.