And the Needles Leapt Up

the sputtering of the engine

kicked my ribs with a thump

and leaves my lungs flattened,

tattered, draped over my bones.

the exhaust—S.O.S. signals from

Central Station and the Crysler Building—

jetted from the rear of your father’s Buick

through the evergreen bushes;

and the needles leapt up

on their sturdy sappy branches,

inhaling the putrid smog

from the tailpipe.

the breeze was peculiar:

it lifted up the needles and kissed them

then made the gaseous concoction

taper down my throat

where it made me choke.

my only breath swiped from me

like that kick of the ignition

from the Buick.

i guess it’s sometimes harder

to watch a car drive away

than to be in that car

where you cannot see

the hastened bellows of one’s chest

from the rear windshield

and how, so softly,

the needles leapt up.