I’m driving to town in my father’s 442,
behind my faded, green ’36 Chevy
driven by 2 old guys who must have rescued it
from where I abandoned it down by the Catskill Creek.
The battery should have been dead
and the registration and insurance papers expired.
We pass a huge billboard alongside the creamery—
a blinding light shows Picasso-like abstract paintings
with encrypted messages over the shyness of flowers.
It contains a woman’s eyes, the color of malachite,
with a face behind the face revealing a woman
with voluptuous breasts and creamy white thighs.
Could she represent the unknown in what lies ahead?
I wonder if she will ever love me as much as I loves her?
I bought the 442 for my father when he had lymphoma,
hoping it would give him strength to battle his illness.
I step on the gas—transformed by the power of this car.