After the Rambler, so mechanical and sideways
on the ice, we thought ourselves lucky
for this new Skylark. Our first power

windows to watch the moon follow us
through trees. Our first bucket seats with Dad
divorced away, his lawyer’s suspenders

snapping decreed visits—each Thursday night
at the Pickle Barrel, each Sunday day
at ballgame or howling zoo. Flat tires

didn’t scare us. There was gas at every
corner. I wanted the smell of that car
to never fade, and kept the windows closed

against it. I knew another man would
interrupt, dirty the white seats, throw
his junk in our clean and spacious trunk. But

now—my sister, Mom and I, alone together
at the empty movies Christmas Eve, that car
ours, parked, blue, waiting to fool us home.