We were 16 and you drove
your dad's car, an old ’57 Chevy,
loaded our gang in,
up and down and around
our small town streets--waving
at girls crowded around
the Zesto Ice Cream Emporium,
where those summer beauties,
laughed and smiled, waved,
and sometimes gave us the finger.
A few decades ago, my wife and I
saw the Great Gatsby movie,
a sad and moving story
about Fitzgerald's wife.
Daisy was escaping, but had to stop
at a gas station where the Texaco man
sprinted out with a rag and filled it up
and the camera panned on
a gas tank reading: 29 cents.
The edge-of-their-seats audience
broke into hoots and guffaws,
as gas was over a dollar then
none of us knowing, like Scott,
and Zelda, that the price would shoot
sky high and higher and higher.
But one night, which I still
chuckle about Bob, your car
showed empty, empty, empty,
Tired of not enough smiles, winks,
and too many middle fingers,
you lurched the old car
into the Texaco, scraped
together 11 cents from our jeans,
and put in what we could.
Just enough to get us home
so that your Dad would
let us use the car next week,
leaving those young ladies,
waiting, waiting for our numerous
drive throughs and bys.
Hoping our meager coins,
which only gave the tank two fingers
would bring us around again.
Originally published in Down In The Dirt Magazine