-my black heaven-

In 1953

a Buick Roadmaster

fell from the sky.

It landed

four wheels down

by the gutter at the sewer

in front of the house.

It rested there in the evenings

across the street from the park
and Whitey's Esso station.

on Saturday mornings, its wide

white-walled tires blocked

the bouncing baseballs

from dropping into the gaping

mouth of the sewer.

the Roadmaster drank heavily

from the hi-test pumps

facing the house from the north

and when called-upon laid

a familiar drunk from Club Marconi

down to nap on its benchseat
before his aproned better-half

could get her hands on him.

The Roadmaster, 4-door sedan
was the crown-jewel
of the neighborhood’s fleet

and two years running was chosen
to roll behind the open flower-cars

in the solemn funeral processions.

It went 70 miles an hour, felt like 30,

on Route 6 east toward the beaches

before the skulking Ford-clad cops knew what hit ‘em.

It guzzled gasoline, lead-spiked,

sparking the plugs driving the pistons

before its leaded muscle was considered
a crime against the planet;

It parted the onrushing wind with the great

nub of its hood;
sneered at on-comers with the heavy

chrome-plated fangs of its grille 

and gave comfort to the weeping nieces

far enough removed by blood from consideration
to the Parlor’s Cadillac Limousine list.
It brings home the bacon.

It delivers the drunks to their sneering wives.
It drinks from the pulse at the fire of lead.
It restoreth my soul and it fell from the sky.