It had its comforts.
Beneath the seat, a pint of Old-Granddad
in a brown paper sack.
Behind the seat, a bag of peanuts
shells and all.

I could walk down Hamlin street,
name them all: 1939 Lincoln Zephyr,
`41 Chevrolet Special Deluxe Coupe.
A boy, ten years old,
alone in his world of cars.

Push back the chrome dinette.
Slow dance on my linoleum
(clock radio knows the hits).
Tonight we cookin’.

This the
Flat-ass truth. Cruisin’ down
Flatbush when Boom!
Flat tire. Gets out, hears music—third-floor

Mother’s violin waits in the attic,
wondering if it remembers how to sing.
Father’s songs (It meant he was happy)
hang in the air.

Two crows steal apples from the orchard, black-eyed thieves shuttling their cargo (only what’s ripe) into the woods. Do I pick now or wait until the crop’s ready, risking a full-scale heist? Not just crows, either: coons, woodpeckers . . .

Quiet on the deck this morning. Dry July, no dew on the table, the Straits glassy flat where local breezes brushstroke the surface a darker blue. Beyond, the Olympics hunker on the horizon, their peaks touched with white. A dog barks in the distance.

Each day we wade into life.
We have plans, of course!
Things we’ll get to,
get back to.

Each day I pass the barn we built,
twenty-five years back,
my friend and I ­ he the craftsman,
the one who knew, who taught the city boy