4 May Cute Car

My Morris Minor sat outdoors all winter
invaded by spiders but no mice.
On the west side of the mountains
I thought of it, alone on the hillside,
possibly moldering. In 1970, I almost
bought a psychedelic green Morris
from a girl whose mechanic boyfriend
had brought it back to life after they
found it overgrown with blackberries.
I have just driven my car 45 miles roundtrip,
loaded for the return with tomato
starts, Spanish lavender, rosemary,
Italian plum and Bartlet pear trees
in five gallon pots, the trees sticking
out the back passenger window so that
as we passed a bicyclist along the lake,
Jim yelled, "Left! Left!" and I swerved.
I wanted to love this car, but what
I love, after thirteen years, is how
the car gives people entry to talk
with me. A couple in the WalMart
parking lot circled as we loaded the fruit
trees into the back - they have a B&B
the other side of the lake, he makes
titanium bicycle pedals used in a top
secret navy submarine project. Last
week he sent a pair to Bath, which
is where I bought my car. My reward
for letting a surgeon slice open my thigh,
saw a foot off my femur and replace
it with a titanium shank. Then repeat.