-historic views of Quequechan, 1953(?)-

it’s impossible to get comfortable under the massive

steering wheel when the springs of the driver’s seat are exposed.

ducking beneath the dashboard for cover

is a nastier endeavor,–– what with exposed wires

falling freely upon my head, and still, after twenty years,

the scent of the cavernous radiator's glycol penetrates the nostrils.

from the inside, I can hear Petrillo at the gate counting

to 20, as Mississippi fills the space between numbers.

I push myself under as deeply as a frightened escapee,

where cancerous rust eats into the floorboard.

diseases were never an issue.

there are four of us strewn across the junkyard, invading

the cars our grandfathers once gloried in.

off the showroom floor. glistening sheetmetal worthy

of the heavens! Hudson, Packard, DeSoto and Henry J.,

once young enough to thrill, to go as fast as to frighten,

to romance beneath the moon the same as inside the Cadillacs.

I’m the new occupant, hunted down like a moose in Maine, and soon,

my head will be a trophy above the mantle, holding photos

of the Patrillo family’s outings, graduations and weddings.

Petrillo’s young mother is deeply beautiful, olive-skinned, a southerner,

“Vibo Valentia” she once confessed to me like a love song, and I hope

she’s up there on the mantle, smiling softly below my naked head.