My mother’s voice tinkles high-pitched on the phone until she knows it is me then it drops an octave as she sits upstairs at a secretary desk above the gleaming vehicles Volarés, LeBarons, Cordobas and the salesmen who walk the long boxy length of them all day Stan, Ralph and that bastard Manville who takes the last of the Coffee-mate doesn’t replace it.
Goodafternoon, Spruceland Chrysler
The showroom men don’t know how guttural a mother can be under nylons and White Shoulders. Hot hands in a concrete laundry tub yelling for me to clean my sonofabitching pigsty before she drives me into the middle of next week. A half dream: I see her at the wheel— her office clothes her birthday brooch me in the velvet passenger seat blue Volaré smooth ride into next Wednesday automatic windows rolled down.