Colt Galant

Twenty years before we buried Dad,
he sold the third-hand car. I still
feel his teeth clench as it refuses to start—
⁣
one solid, quivering clamp for the various tells
of failure: a click or a dry scratch,
a noisy trembling or a hollow release of air.
⁣
(Which means the alternator? Which a dead
battery? What signals the starter
relay and not at all the spark
plug?) Not a matter of forcing the key,
of vigor or even the joy of a long push,
as the jaw loosens for a sigh.