The following poem was written for this course. In it, a man speaks to a young buyer who has come to look at a car he is selling.
It starts on the first try. You heard that. Go on,
sit in. The seat's set forward. That was hers.
I never moved it back. You'll want to move it.
Lever's underneath. No, underneath. There.
5Forty-one thousand miles, and most of those
are church and the market and her sister's place
in Tilden, ninety minutes either way
if you don't stop, and she stopped. Every time.
There's a farm stand out past the reservoir
10sells pies in a cardboard box. She'd bring one home
and tell me she'd been good and only looked.
The last few hundred miles are mine: her clinic,
and back, and back. You don't need to hear that.
Don't mind the dash. That's sun. She'd park it facing
15the street so she could see who came and went,
and mostly what came was the sun. You'll want a cover.
I'll be honest with you, since you're young
and you'll be honest with me later, when
it does something: she never liked this car.
20Too much car, she said. Too much money.
Said the blinker sounded like a pencil tapping,
like someone at a desk, waiting on her.
She drove it anyway. Eleven years.
You don't keep a thing eleven years you don't like,
25I told her once. She said that's all I know.
The radio's on her station. Leave it, change it,
it's yours, it's nothing to me. It's a good station.
They play the old ones Sunday nights. Well.
Here's the spare key. Here's the other spare.
30The title's signed. It's in the glove box, there,
with the registration and her sunglasses.
I meant to take those out. No, you keep them.
Or don't. Somebody at your school might want them.
Go on and take it around the block. I'll wait.
35I'll stand right here. I'll hear it when it turns.