I was raised to believe in Fords.

It was the car of my father,

and his father before him.

He taught me to change the oil

every three thousand miles,

letting every drop of the old

fall from the pan like dirty blood,

before he replaced it

with the thick honey that oozed smoothly

from the hole where he punctured the can,

a small hole above and a larger one below.

He taught me to shine the finish,

turning the chamois again and again,

keeping the old from the new

until the chrome reflected the sun,

like the day my father was handed the keys,

driving home for the first time

with the back seat full of kids.

But one by one we strayed,

my brothers before me,

and then I, too.

Believing in Chevys and Chryslers and Gremlins,

whatever we could afford coming before

all we were taught to believe.

And now I find

that I have become an Automotive Atheist,

teaching my children to believe

in absolutely nothing at all,

except the reliability of a strong battery,

a heater,

and a car that never leaks.

November 1996