Black Rocket

Black Rocket, Michael Berk
My father owned a '56
Bel Aire Sports Sedan --
a Chevy for the kid in him and for a family man.

Chrome polished mercury bright,
fenders shiny as wet jet,
a sleek machine with white walls Clorox clean,
a dash that screamed I'm goin' places -- fast.

If he could he would have slept in her;
instead we saw the U.S.A.
round hairpin curves, and up Pikes Peak,
and once a week
he hosed her down
and buffed her till she gleamed.

Somewhere in the nether world
on that highway in the sky,
he has that V-8 opened up
and speeds right by the exit sign --
the one marked Paradise.

His heaven was and is to drive.

Corrine Frisch