The 1994 Paint Job

It sat in the gravel, a heavy maroon,

shimmering under the heat of the noon.

The clear coat was peeling in strips off the hood,

like skin on a shoulder as well as it could.

I found a small chip in the tray of the tools,

a relic of driveway and car-washing rules.

The color of cherries or blood left to dry,

a block of the yard under a wide summer sky.

My father would lean on the fender and wait,

for the hinges to groan on the heavy back gate.

The metal would click when the engine was hot,

a sound that I kept in a quiet, dark spot.