The Porsche

It occurred to me pre-dawn

after I had put on my running shoes

and shlepped outside pushing one aging knee past the next

that I had seen the guy in the Porsche twice this week.

Alone on the sidewalk,

desperate to quiet my thoughts

or ignoring the crackling of my joints-

I saw him shooting off the highway:

convertible roof down,

gunning his engine.

What a douchebag

was my first thought.

This guy gets up early every morning

to drive his fancy car

fast on empty roads.

It occurred to me that there must be

hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands

of men, around the world, who must do this.

After turning the corner and entering the tunnel-

the glaring neon lights buzzing

in the growing humid heat-

my judgment weighed me down.

Short of breath

and sweating into my beard-

I saw myself in a cockpit

of a cherry red Porsche:

The music cranked to deafening decibels,

probably early 2000s Strokes.

The smell of the leather seats

conflicting with my loosening vegan commitments.

The twinkling lights of the dash

crafted by exquisite German design

take me back to 1983…

I’m nine and my parents no longer live in the same house,

technically we are no longer a family

and to make up for this fact

my dad takes me to movies.

Last Saturday we saw one

about a young entrepreneur

who starts a small time brothel in his house

to pay off his debt to a prostitute.

Not sure how we are allowed to watch this film,

but there we were

the two of us bonding

awkwardly in the darkness

as I watched a sex scene on a train.

These days those images are only

brought to life in abstractions

and vagaries.

But I clearly remember the Porsche.

Thirty four years later,

I’ve never even sat in one.