after Barbara Simmons’ “Ancient History”
He always talked about his Woody affectionately,
like all other cars before or after
were just vehicles, but
his Woody was a live being.
His youth, his passion.
No car like your first car.
When we came upon this one
in the middle of the woods
on our Sunday afternoon hike
there it was, all rusted and forgotten.
“It’s a Woody,” he said, “just like my old fella.”
Not his Woody, though.
I thought he was going to cry.
Love this poem, Brenda! Poignant and expressive!