A poem written by tom healy

for road rage

​

FIRST CAR

 

No ribbons or pictures or grins.

The mother’s man chose.

Stepfather, boyfriend, dad who wasn’t

a full-on deadbeat. 

More strings than gift.

Give the finger to his lecture.

Grab the key. 

 

It’s the nothing you’re owed, 

the little we can afford,

how much he wanted 

to live through you or 

make clear you’re not his fault, 

not his friend, maybe

(don’t make me sick to say it) a fag.

 

Same ritual as your first time getting drunk,

first swing at your old man,

first time you’re spit at 

because you don’t have it in you,

you’re a punk and a sissy and 

a momma’s boy. 

You think your mother will fix your goddam car?

 

But every boy as we believed boys to be 

still wants muscle, still wants wheels, 

wants the same jacked-up two-door ride.

A pony car, the old guys

called it—long hood, 

short deck, open mouth. 

Same hunger for another tongue.

 

A barely sideswiped Camaro

is what my brother got. 

Getting it ready was his world.

Welding spark, Bondo, sandpaper, sweat, 

swapped-out leather bucket seats, 

new chrome wheels and the world was beautiful,

Perfect Blue Metallic. 

​

For perfect blue, the theory says 

all green and red must go.

Then a trick of aluminum chips 

suspended in the color

to make it metal

and all of it ambered in polyurethane 

for polish and glow.

 

But the world drives around

with imperfect paint. 

My first car was sneer, ripped seats,

rusted maroon.  

A Chevy Nova four-door sedan 

that looked like mom jeans, 

thick glasses, Sunday school.

 

We always said maroon. 

Maroon is red mixed with brown.

But the Internet says burgundy was the color 

of the ’73 Chevy Nova.   

Burgundy is purple stirred with red.

Maroon is mud. 

Burgundy is wine.