Ford Galaxy

It broke the dog’s leg

when you were reversing for me          on the slope at home.

Racing green

it sits for scrap now

on the tow truck.

Majestic as a king

on his lectica

the ratchets click

the blue straps tighten

before the final journey

out the gates

through which it once

first drove

purchased from our savings

when we were told

we were having twins.

Ground-in chocolate, mud, crumbs

infant seats all straps and buckles

the roof rack bars were your horizontal

handles when you’d stand

and, like the Hulk, begin to shake

us when you’d come to say goodbye.

And the strapped-in children would

shout as if they were about to be tipped

out, and when you stopped, their laughter

turned to Do it again! Go on, do it again!

I once knew a woman who drove a convertible:

metallic navy, white leather interior, gloss veneer

fabric, reclining roof.

A thing of  vehicular beauty.

When she sold it she never wrote a poem.