Again down the straight dark street familiar,
holiday periphery red, white, and greenish
mere distractions, if that, so breathless bored
until a left turn where a perfect waxed car sat
once was a double lot there smooth and grassy
a little coupe slept in two-tone taupe and brown,
gave rise to a fantasy of cool. Wanna date, baby?
My tranny is push-button, Plymouth automatic too.
Three houses now where that grass once grew,
three more blocks along cookie cut white capes
and a right turn into memories: a youthful flu outta
cigarettes causes a feverish walk to Jack's deli for
some cool mentholatum smoked waist out window,
grey ashes on pitted aluminium frames an only clue.
Slow the drive and smoking menthol still to pull into
a patterned macadam drive past it's black prime,
some lonely cracks on blocks where a wind blown
screen blew Suzanne right off the porch untrellised;
now a cherry Camry driven was a wish once
in heavy purple purple flannel, tomorrow we
shall move you to a bed where the snow can
be seen, gone drifting in a dream grown white.