Kathleen's Car

Kathleen’s Car

If one owned a car in Blue Jay

it was just as likely to be in the back yard

as in the driveway.

It was just as likely that

one would take parts off to sell

as one would buy parts to put on.

The front seat was just as likely

to be warmed by Skeeter, the coon hound,

as Aunt Franny’s fanny being hauled around.

Kathleen’s car was in purgatory.

Twelve years of bath-free minimal care,

harsh use and hard weather,

had planted the old Chevy

firmly at an undetermined point

on the eye-sore-to-rust-bucket continuum.

It did run, with a bang

that harmonized with the music

of hunting season,

and its smoke snakes

slithered invisibly through

mornings of impenetrable fog.

The choking venom poked noses

when the fog wafted.

Once a shiny new Baby Blue

it had grown a densely-knitted,

rust-colored shawl,

and paint once as smooth

as a baby’s butt had erupted

into ugly sandpaper.

She had taken us to town,

to the market, to school,

wherever our destination might be,

but such was our shame to be seen

that we dropped a coin, a book,

a paper and leaned over to pick it up,

so nobody would see.

In fact, Kathleen hauled most of the kids

to one place or another,

but you only ever saw her driving alone.