I remember that 1941 Buick
I had when we met, courted, married.
I remember the long kisses while parking
and sometimes driving.
I remember that’s how we bent the fender
and broke the radiator grill,
giving Gertie a fierce face;
bruised eye, missing tooth.
I remember the motorcycle cop
who ticketed us because you stared at him,
or was it Gertie’s wicked look?
I remember our first camping trip,
how Gertie seemed to scare
other campers away,
leaving the grounds to us.
In the end, her first gear clattered
and we sold her for fifteen dollars
to a scrap yard, the only one
that would take her.
You dropped some tears
and I remembered.
How did she get her name?
I named her that
to tell you something
What that was I can’t remember.
Happy Valentine’s Day
February 14, 1998