There it was, hogging a huge swath of street,
twice as long as the Civic parked beside it,
relic of the jaunty middle century
into which lucky you and I were born,
when no one thought of limits to earth’s bounty—
white with red leather upholstery,
red instrument panel, red steering wheel:
a finned, preening Cadillac Seville,
top down, as if to lure me in.
I half thought you would show up with the key.
If anything could have brought you home
it would have been that swank, outlandish car.
Were you still alive then? I’m not sure
but I know I waited; you didn’t come.
