-the brushed, blue car-

the brushed, blue car which has no name which has no make nor model

which occupies a space in two dimensions whose only depth is of its own making,
has a manufacturer, has an identity unto itself, drives nowhere but always appears

to be ready to go.

It’s a streamlined two-door with full wheel covers, a sloping hood

without ornamentation, cascading to rest upon the leading edge of its grille,

a simulated chromium plate.

the rear deck's molded organics are seductive.

looks to be in good shape.

It’s been parked at the top of the hill on a side street with a wide expanse

adjacent to a gas station which is closed for the Holiday.
the pavement behind the scene slopes downward, and I romance its ending

at the banks of the river.

the brushed, blue car has been sitting there a long, long time.

I’d call the cops but what are they going to do?––

ask a bunch of stupid questions, that's what.

(there’s a kid lurking in the shadows. looks about nine or ten.

he's standing against the dark-side of the brown two tenement behind the gas station.
kid looks pressed to the house.

looks like he’s playing hide-and-seek.
looks like he plays alone.

looks like he's ready to throw a stone...)

I'd call the cops but they'd just tow the brushed, blue car away,–– into the bowels

of the dreaded north-end of town, the lifeless Impounding Station

near the woods of lonely Assonet, where nothing returns quite the same as it was,
if anything returns at all and anyway,
I don't want the cops traipsing around inside my house.

pictured: detail of Leonard Dufresne's "Holiday" / 1972