If You Drive the Car You Become the Car

A golden shovel, after Seungja Choi

Uncle Gerry has everything
a bouquet of carnations that never dries
his rusted [Camaro Super Sport] restored like a sapphire scooped out
from the backyard soil where our dog Bruno is buried as compost and
the car struts down Third Avenue where late Uncle Angel admires all
the ways its tires dance dangerously atop the asphalt roads’
expressions as gout varicose veins boundaries
racing against grief like the coyote exploding into a blur
burning the concern of the when the will the retirement the
solar eclipse as I watch his smile travel for miles until the same CD gets old
and he parks at the karaoke bar where Auntie June is the singer’s
lament of missing her husband who disappeared one winter like a voice
lost from yelling into the microphone toward the lyric that droops
offscreen into Namuac where Uncle Gerry’s tank runs dangerously low
on sense of self for there is no destination as long as the lights are on
and his son’s hand that he is afraid to hold grabs the
wheel as they run all the red lights and forget the police cameras are recording