Ghosts

The driveway is haunted by bodies
of cars that rust in weeds and rubble
on the edges of towns where nobody goes:
the 39 Plymouth that even when parked

leaned, squealing, into a sharp right turn;
the 47 Dodge we drove from the running board;
the 51 Nash with the knob on the steering wheel
that made u-turns spray a perfect circle of dust;
the 56 Chev with the huge trunk for smuggling
a trio of friends into the drive-in theatre.
Haunted too by the teen-ager who filled his tank
with syphoned gas while the neighbours slept,
who borrowed his father’s car for a game
of chase, the rough side of town, lights
extinguished, the hidden bump that launched it
into the long, breathless silence. . .
the landing that broke all the shocks.
Haunted still by that boy
who thought for too long
that cars were what mattered.

– Robert Currie