“You can’t see it through the rust
but there’s a real nice car beneath there,”
my father would say with a smile;
that expectant grin that invites you in.
It doesn’t make you tea or coffee
but it will gladly show you around.

His calloused hands covered in oil
would read the pocked surface like braille
blues and browns hiding brighter memories
that he could somehow see clearly
though he would rarely articulate.

If you were patient enough however
you’d see it in his youthful eyes
trapped in a cage of years indiscernible,
a child was there, lost amongst trees
though grateful for the forest.

He’d send another gulp of coffee down
and nod in respectful silence
as if all of us had agreed on something.
To be fair, even when we didn’t,
I wish we had. It always felt good
to share a destination with him
to hop into the front seat
and just let him drive;
rust be damned.