Sedans By Sam Crocker


My father and his friends
drove cars that smelled
like cigarettes and old books.

Canvas bags lay on the front seats
filled with bootleg tapes
and dusty CD cases.

My Mother rolled her Subaru
onto the yard every spring
px;”>and washed it and put it in order.

She pulled paint cans, quilts,
and antique candlesticks from
the inside until they circled the lawn.

A family friend lived
in his car while he tried to pay
his way through graduate school.

His car was full
of discarded manuscripts
and fly-fishing gear.

My Grandmother’s car was
immaculate, with a plaid
blanket folded in the back.

She kept a small wooden turtle
on the dashboard
and a backscratcher inside the door.

In 2007 my Grandfather drove
the last car he would ever own
to the dump.

Before leaving, he retrieved
a book of common prayer
from the passenger seat.

My neighbor’s car
smelled like oil paint
and turpentine.

She moved to Los Angeles
when she had her baby.
His name is Isaac.

By Sam Crocker


Sam Crocker is a young writer from Bernardston, Massachusetts. He spends most of his time gardening, writing, and playing music. His poetry has appeared in the Little Brown House Review, and his songs have been featured in the Valley Advocate’s “Valley Sessions,” (a local site for live music in the Pioneer Valley).

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