An antique metal remnant
preens at the end of a
lonely drive for one of those
houses untouched by decades
takes you back to those fifties
fantasies of families yours could
never live up to
imagining backyard barbecues
sharp chlorine scent from pristine
blue waters and the mosaic patterns
that glitter like shells under painted toes
pick-up games in the yard
she remembers
surrounded by coral bubble glass
and a turquoise kitchenette
eighty-years old she stares
out yellow curtains
remembering what was
Her son has busted out the
windows of that antique car
and filled them with rose-colored
glass
I wonder if
to sit
behind that steering wheel
with the scent of brown leather
and Camel cigarettes
he can hear his father’s keys
dangling against the dash
I imagine that
staring through that
magenta haze–
as the ting ting ting
of silver makes its own melody–
is as startling
and overwhelming
as memory.