Driving With the Roof Down
July 15 2008


When I was a boy
I could name every car
driving past.
In some other place
I might have known the types of snow
or wild plants;
or some other time
the ranks
of angels.

Somehow, cars were sexy
before I even knew the word,
let alone what it meant.
And back then
the names were a muscular kind of verse,
like Road Master
or Power Wagon.
Ford favoured alliteration
— the Fairlane, the Falcon —
the proud hunter de-clawed
in a boxy sedan.
But Thunderbird was perfect,
and I’d shout excitedly
when a sleek T-bird went purring past.
And names that tried too hard
like Impala,
the fleet long-legged deer
rendered static
earthbound
in a four-door full-size car.

Because boys like powerful machines.
And cars are freedom, too
— the back seat
the drive-in
making speed.
And 16 was the on-ramp to life,
the keys dangling just before your eyes
counting-down birthdays.

Now, I drive to work
and back
fighting traffic, pumping gas,
and my car is named for a number.
But in summer
on the open road
there is still romance,
and a middle-aged man reaches back
to the boy
— driving with the roof down,
the wind in his thinning hair.