-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.

“you see anybody hangin’ around there”?

“you see anybody messin' around"?

“you see any drugs"?

(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.

                       
detail of Leonard Dufresne's "Holiday" / 1972