I'm clawing my way out of winter, shoveling
and scraping, then a goose to my Honda
to prime its transmission. My daughter
won’t ride in my car. Should be condemned,
she says, so to please her, I get rid of
empty water bottles, gas receipts, candy
wrappers, and junk mail. She reminds me
a teak spice carousel has taken up residence
in the back seat. I set her straight—
what you call litter is comfort to me.
In dog years, my Honda is older than I am.
We’ve covered 152,000 miles on highways
rougher than washboards, swerved around
potholes, entrails, and garbage; semis
on either side hovering to crush us.
We’ve tracked errant children and dogs.
The worst―black ice ready to spin us
into a tree, but my Honda comes through.
It deserves a good detailing, but, in truth,
another trucks’s backspray is up ahead.
© by Nancy Scott.
Used with the author’s permission.