Idle

                    A car stops and the door opens 

                                    - Linda Gregg, Bamboo and A Bird

 
A car stops and the door opens and sound 
escapes. Splash that was not there before. 
Into the air, jazzy brush on drum.
Lullaby with rouged plum sky. 
Snippet of guitar strum, winsome sonata. 
Sound propels me to see all the cars parked 
under the summer night’s street lights. 
Cars with bodies inside sucking smoke and 
reaching for one another. 
From my vehicle determined closure 
as my mother zips her weighty beige 
purse shut. Dangling from her left hand. 
A single tube of lipstick having fallen 
onto the sidewalk alongside us.
Its descriptive clink like dropping 
a silver dollar into Sunday’s offering plate. 
Or the joviality of my handsome 
younger father on a Saturday night 
tossing dice. Blowing on them first 
over splayed game board, sounding ha-cha. 
Or is it simply the metallic 
creak of the VW’s dented passenger 
door releasing from the body 
as exhalation from the bearded driver is
as quiet as the street lamps buzzing 
then dimming. His petite girlfriend’s 
right foot touching down on pavement. 
Her dishwater blonde hair 
moving over her shoulder. 
The car idling as if any moment 
it will go quiet, and die.