’63 Chevy Impala
I had a brother once.
On the morning of my thirtieth birthday
I looked in the mirror and saw his face
on my face.
That was a first.
He chose to die six days later
halfway across the country
on train tracks arguing, crying,
we don’t know for sure.
But the train won.
I wasted no time washing down
leftover pain killers with beer
while trying to get a flight home.
With a broken dad and brothers
we cleaned out the
basement room he rented.
One box held all his twenty-five years.
He put a 409 in the ’63 Chevy Impala
He loved that car.
I found a model of it
in the box
and years later
on the shelf
in my son’s room.
Why is it so easy to cry in the shower?
Is it because we are alone?
Because we’re hidden?
Or is it the ten thousand warm tears
pelting us from the shower head that
relax us into our pain?
I don’t have answers to these questions.
I don’t have answers to a shit load of things.
But tonight I stood in the shower
and cried for my dog.
I fix dents in cars.
For thirty years I have made
battered things new.
The other day my son texted me that
he was hitting himself in the face again.
I told him, be careful, for chrissakes.
Don’t go knocking out a tooth
or needing stitches,
’cause you don’t have insurance.
I never asked him why.
Never questioned a punch.
Never told him how I felt
I’d like to help.
Want to help.
I can’t fix those dents.