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Seasons slipped by after the roars stopped from their engines Now grown to adults, their small cars silent and dusty Were stored, garaged in boxes, then offered without warranty of service Spread to the next generation of tiny drivers to sweetly purr again with mouth engines, pursuing space-aged adventures speeding to wireless places As we served our new adults, one by one their big cars, then There were no little cars, Until seasons later one reappeared on the floor A survivor, green, still shiny On a Saturday morning; I nearly stepped on its roof while the grandchild slept the car Stared up at me, between our bed and the bath then more were sighted: Sightings that shot back that old fear with increasing speed Of that dread sound--the crunch underfoot in the dark, then Submitting my plea, not guilty, later in the morning to a wee judge with large tears In my losing case of the squashed dream car Illegally parked, of course But clearly and rightfully on its way to somewhere. Donal Heffernan
Stillwater, Minesota |