And again the blue behemoth would roar,
Rippled tattered seats, strange radio box,
Car oil, rank, familiar, stains skin and suit.
I’d wait as he fetched the car from the bay;
We’d talk, driving as night comes creeping
And stern orange streetlights scan us both
In the curtain of dark, where there’s silence,
All except the radioed roar of football fans;
The commentators speaks fast, zippy voices—
They sound distant, as if in a far dimension.