By John Sangster

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.

I might trace my hand along a fender’s arc,
take in my reflection on polished surfaces:
the short-fat me on the radius of the door,
the miniature short-fat me on the bumper’s curve;

stand back and squint to catch the lines
of a 1940 Mercury Town Sedan,
perfect slope of the tear-drop back.
Grilles that smiled or frowned.
Hood ornaments, dramatic,
a bare-breasted woman in flight,
or simple, a chrome accent.

My first high, the smell of gasoline.
The feel of felt above my head
and nap on the seats, its musty interior smell;
cigarettes crushed in the tray, that smell too.

A Buick’s whine in low,
the rhythmic thrum of a Ford V-8,
ticking of an engine cooling down.

I could walk down Hamlin street,
maybe sit on a running board,
palms down.  Dig in, push back.
Hear those springs?