In the back lot is a broad-shouldered truck father to a sleeker figure with fins You have graduated to walking (or sailing an electric model with no sound) but the workhorse of your boyhood is patient longing parade watchers recall the boulevard (though small) of the quarterback, the professor, and the lifeguard Your ears showed then and the cleft in your chin yet it’s the softness in your eyes, headlights, that have grown refined. You feed the birds on the lanai and read the signs from behind glasses propped on your nose no vehicles required to reach the spirit of the present in your dreams you may be waxing the baby blue buffing the hubcaps and grille, grateful for the heft of the keys in your jeans pocket but in daylight you squint and remember (I