Sunday, July 8, 2012


The 1940 Ford sits in splendor
in the undoored garage, waiting
patiently for its driver who never
drives anywhere without her hat,
one of her Sunday hats, pinned
neatly to her gray hair. The boy
sits in the passenger seat, waiting
impatiently for the next journey
around town, knowing the Ford
will inevitably break down,
usually in what the lady will
consider a forsaken or vaguely
threatening neighborhood, but it
will be a new adventure, wherever
the Ford sputters and stops. People
are always kind and respond
to the knock by the lady
with the gray hair kept in place
by a Sunday hat, the boy at her side
wondering how long it would be
this time for the tow truck to arrive.

This is another in a series of poems about growing up in the South, suggested by my friend Nancy Rosback. My grandmother drove a 1940 Ford that looked exactly like the one in the photograph.


Anonymous said...

this is one of my favorites
i love every last word of it.

Maureen said...

Great car. Enjoyed the story in this poem.

Martha Jane Orlando said...

Awesome memory . . .

owenswain said...

Love the surprise ending.

S. Etole said...

So easy to envision this from your words.

David Rupert said...

I loved the end as well. As much as I love classic cars, I've kind of gotten used to the the reliablity of newer models!

SimplyDarlene said...

sunday hats fit
any ole day
of the week,

I also second what miss Davis said...