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