An as-yet untitled, very rough, loose Villanelle.

[uptheapples]

Untitled
My father's car smelled like:
City air, worn leather, sticks of gum and
Saturday mornings-driving to Bethesda

In that old blue civic. And we would
Listen to "Your Money Matters."
That's what my father's car smelled like.

I was eleven. My heart exploded when
He dragged us away from family, friends, from our
Saturday mornings-driving to Bethesda.

We learned to fight. We were too
Alike, Mom said and it was every other word-a screaming match.
That's what my father's car smelled like

Until it stopped. He left mid-mid-life
Crisis for someone else. Four states away from our
Saturday mornings-driving to Bethesda.

And it was over-the fighting, shouting-we
Became polite facsimiles of former selves.
My father's car doesn't smell like
Saturday mornings-driving to Bethesda.

©2009
Concrit welcome, as always.