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
But I clearly remember the Porsche.
Thirty four years later,
I’ve never even sat in one.