We went for long drives
on Sundays for a while.
We'd antique and listen to
obscure jazz.
 
Every one of these days
was grey and wet somehow.
We were grey and wet too,
but I was never again as glad.
 
The car would fill with the
smoke from dad's Camels and
the perfume of vintage
knick-knacks.
 
We had fedoras, old toys, perhaps a
brooch or two. And mom was
mad as hell when we
finally got home.