The Junkyard Meditations

July 28, 2008

I haven’t seen it since Saturday morning,

the crumpled encasement of metal

that once housed my body

every time I got in.  Shards of glass

cover the front seats. How had I not gotten cut?

The smash in the windshield has etched

a perfect spiderweb pattern.

I hadn’t remembered that the passenger’s-side airbag

had also deployed, its diaper-turquoise a contrast

to the tan that had exploded in my hands.

I gather in bags and a leftover knapsack

what remains: maps I’d just bought,

my CDs of Michael Feinstein and Misty River,

a pair of black loafers in case it got cold,

the tefillin and matching yarmulke

my friend Sylvia’s son wore

before he died of AIDS. The car sits forlorn,

not unlike a parent,  once indomitable,

now vulnerable and small,

the way my mother once said,

“I can’t help you anymore.”

David Rutiezer