Car House Poem by Robert Dawson

CAR HOUSE

When mother's '40 Nash gave up the ghost
father stalled it in the dunes outside the court
for my to practice trumpet. All summer I'd blat
the marches from Conn's B-flat manual
until Stanley, Rita, and Melba
foxbellied close and in a three doors.
We shingled canasta runs on the black floorboards.

The orange roof of the bath and wash house
palisaded over the olve clapboard fence
around the trailers, masking our trenches.
Saturday we heard the kaleidoscopic Okie jukebox
squall Hank Snow or "In the Mood" from the office
where after midnight town cops would bust the dance.
As soon as my kid sister breathed
puffy sleep breaths, I crawled to the Nash
where the others crouched.
It was our house.
We were four married people, couples.
We switched on the dead car radio. Rita
took off her blouse. Our favorite game
was Doctor. Stanley and Rita played.
She was sprouting hair but no breasts.
Melba was my girl but too shy
to show me more than her chest.
After school started we hated each other. Each boy
from town had his secret flame. Mine
was Nina, black-haired, thought pretty, a brain
at math. When father fled
in his almost new Ford for Florida,
I was persuaded to tell. My friends
with houses whooped down the corrodor
to spill all. It seemed she love me too.
We held hands once and forgot to promise to write.