-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 on Saturday mornings, its wide

white-walled tires blocked

the street-bounding foul balls

from dropping into the gaping

maw of the treacherous sewer.

the Roadmaster drank heavily

from the hi-test pumps

of Whitey’s ESSO

facing the house from the north

and when called-upon laid down

a familiar drunk from "Club Marconi"

(a stale scent to remember)
behind the great billboards,
to sleep-it-off on the breadth
of its overpowering backseat

before the poor guy's better-half
could get her hands on him.

The glistening, black Roadmaster
was documented as a "company car"
loaned to my father in gratitude
for an exemplary on-the-road sales record;––

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 80 miles an hour (felt like 30)

on Route 6 east toward the beaches

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

It guzzled gasoline, lead-spiked,

sparking the plugs driving the pistons

in a time before its leaded muscle was tamed by statute.

It parted the onrushing wind with the massive

nub of its hood, sneering at on-comers
with the heavy chrome-plated fangs of its grille 

and gave comfort to the grieving young nieces

far enough removed by blood from consideration

to the Parlor’s Cadillac Limousine List.

It sheltered the young, grief-sick
on the way to the foreignness of the grave.

It delivers the recently sobered in time for his supper.

It drank from the nozzle for a taste of the fierceness of its lead.
It brings home the bacon, Fridays on end.

It restoreth my soul and It fell from the sky.


                                                     Quequechan