That Final Turn

That Final Turn

Tuck turned over to us his Expedition

when he got the new model and heard 

the red Accord Gracie inherited from Tyler

quit turning over for good. She’d driven it  

ever since I throttled my cousin’s ‘87 back

from Beaufort, parted ways at graduation 

when the four-speed wouldn’t roar me 

through college, used the jingle

to buy a little truck I later gave to Micaiah 

on the handshake agreement he’d fix 

what I couldn’t beneath the hoods of our future 

fleet. The faded Forester that followed 

later fit his sister Kaitlin’s needs,

so I signed over the keys when Hunt gifted me 

his Fit since he bought his uncle’s truck, 

right around the time Gracie’s other brother 

had the pluck to give new life to the old 

4Runner our new neighbor sold. All told, 

despite those who insist to tow the weight 

of their despair that the haunting presence 

of a junk yard holds a key part 

to get the new earth running, 

it’s almost impossible not to imagine—given 

how complex the engine that got us 

there—we might all pull in in time 

for supper, if after, yes, extensive repairs, 

and in a very different vehicle 

than the one in which we set out.