My Life in Cars

My first car was tiny and red,
stick shift, crank windows, no AC,
but it got me where I needed
to go. The store, school,
pick up brothers, visit friends.
It was overshadowed by a pink Chevy,
a Granny car. Automatic transmission,
radio, seat covers, and the smell
of pine from the tree hanging
on the mirror. In quick succession
came gray, blue, and white—
gray sold for a song,
blue’s motor blown,
white wasted with rust and time.
I imagine them,
piled
one on top of another
flattened, faded, final.
A metal trophy showing a life.
A tribute to
my carbon footprint.