PENNSYLVANIA PASTORAL

The car stops, not because

the driver decided they’d gone

far enough or because the woman

said, “I’m sick,” or the boy

had to pee. It simply stopped

because it had to, and when the

three get out and he pops

the hood they discover the fan

belt has vanished and the engine

shut down, wisely. It could

be worse, it could always be

worse—a cylinder could seize

for no foreseeable reason and send

them into irreversible debt.

Cars are, after all, only

machines, and this one—

a ’48 Pontiac Six—is

aged and whimsical. It could

be much worse—the Mojave

in mid-July with no shade

in sight or northern Ontario

in winter, the snow already burning

the backs of Father’s hands and

freighting Mother’s lashes. They’ve

stalled descending into a gully

in rural Pennsylvania, a quiet

place of maples leafing out,

a place with its own creek

high in its banks and beyond

the creek a filling station,

its lights still on after dawn,

the red and green pumps ready to

give, and someone there, half-awake.