I run the Black and Decker
over the car’s upholstery,
press into seams, shove the nozzle under seats.
Every other Saturday
when my father had custody,
I’d sit between shadows
on the lawn and watch
as he vacuumed, then took
each and every piece of carpeting out,
washed it with a hose and special soap.
Sometimes I’d lean inside the car,
admire his face, gleaming
pink with effort,
and ask if I could help
and would be given a rag and told to buff
the glove compartment, at which point,
he’d promptly move somewhere else,
the trunk or the hubcaps.
While I could never be angry
at the cars themselves,
too beautiful, too glorious,
I could be angry with him
and was for years
and still am.
A man who left me when I was eight,
packed up whatever car he had at the time, the Pontiac,
the junky Chrysler, or the apple red Ford,
and drove across state after state after state.
But here I am at the sink, using a little dish soap
to scrub pine needles
out from the ridges of the plastic floor protectors.
What can I say?
I like the new car smell. I like
when the upholstery looks brand-new.
It’s nice to pretend I get to keep something perfect.
