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Ford Galaxy
It broke the dog’s leg when you were reversing for me on the slope at home. Racing green it sits for scrap now on the tow truck. Majestic as a king on his lectica the ratchets click the blue straps tighten before the final journey out the gates through which it once first drove purchased from our savings when we were told we were having twins. Ground-in chocolate, mud, crumbs infant seats all straps and buckles the roof rack bars were your horizontal handles when you’d stand and, like the Hulk, begin to shake us when you’d come to say goodbye. And the strapped-in children would shout as if they were about to be tipped out, and when you stopped, their laughter turned to Do it again! Go on, do it again! I once knew a woman who drove a convertible: metallic navy, white leather interior, gloss veneer fabric, reclining roof. A thing of vehicular beauty. When she sold it she never wrote a poem.