BUICK REGAL

Bumped into Mr. Bergeron
at the coffee shop early morning –
no mistaking that Gallic nose,
short wiry body and jaunty gait.
His story told me in my teens
percolated up on seeing him –
how at age nineteen a landing craft
disgorged him onto an ashen atoll
in the Pacific where he only moved
by crawling on his belly with his buddies,
eating ashen dirt, shitting in his pants
without knowing it, and spitting curses
against every deafening spray of metal.

He grinned a wide grin on seeing me,
threw out a hand for firm shaking,
then waved me out to the parking lot
for a look at his brand-new Buick Regal
sitting there lolling in its imperial shine.
Finishing the tour inside and out,
he paused while leaning against a fender,
dropping word matter-of-factly
as rain on rooftops –
the doctors gave him
but a few months more.

Before I could muster a lame response,
he gave a wink and pat on the back,
tucked the New York Post under his arm
as he snatched up his cup of take-out joe
from the hood, then slung himself
into his slick black Buick Regal –
his fourth-to-last time driving it.