“In the last three days Sheridan learned to walk,
and left the quadruped behind—for some reason
small pets avoid him.…” Who shakes hands with a dead friend?
I see a huge, old rattling brown paper bag,
a picture, no fact; when I try to unwrap it,
it slips in my hands. It is our old car
resurrected from the must of negligence,
warning like Hector’s Ghost from the underground—
the car graveyard … now no longer obsolete.
I do not drive in England, yet in my thought,
our past years, especially the summers, are places
I could drive back to if I drove a car,
our old Burgundy Ford station-wagon summer-car,
our fourth, and first not prone to accident.