by Ray Succre

*******

He settled a blunt, witching appraisal
on the car. "This is Hell," he said,
"you don’t take a car like this without
knowing the sort of car it's been."

Yet no history could be rummaged.
No comment was included.

My father piped into the carburetor
like an oriole chesting in its tree.
He noted the antenna was short,
having been snapped at its half-height
half a life back.
He pointed out that a door was stuck,
and the windshield was spidered.

I shrugged; this was the best I could afford;
I'd spent all of my paycheck and savings.

He shook his head. "And these retreads...
they’ll leave you hitching it roadside
your first long, hot trip."

I knocked the top, where the hairs met
his head, wiped my feet and entered
sporting the jagged white car price,
like a caught fox wore raised fur.

"This is Hell," he said again, as he extended the keys.

*******