I wait for a bus at the GW bridge.
A young woman screeches to a halt,
asks for the way, then asks me to drive.
Could she be a reincarnation of my cousin
Flora who died long ago?
When she asks if it’s safe for me to be driving
since I look like a very old man, I assure her
with the story of how I learned to drive
when I was 10 years old. As soon as I could see
over the windshield, Father taught me to drive`
his 1931 Model A-Ford on deserted country roads.
Driving a car became second nature.
The doppleganger and I chat about similar memories—
the car ride to Jones Beach on hot summer days
and who would be the first to sniff the salt air.
Our nickel subway rides to Coney, scaring ourselves
to death dropping down on the parachute jump.
We laughed about how much we enjoyed
Yonah Schimmel’s delicious knishes and we both
couldn’t remember the name of the candy store
on Orchard Street where we gorged on a hot dog
and a root beer for 25 cents.
When my bus arrives, the driver toots his horn
to wake me up and board the bus.