The Two Harolds

The Two Harolds

squinting against

the sun as it glints across the Porsche

rich red rendered grey in the black and white

photo dated October 1960—

Little Harold with his jack o’ lantern grin

front teeth traded to the tooth fairy

for a ride on a warm fall day

ragtop down light spilling everywhere

as if there were no tomorrow

the engine revs sights set on the road ahead

as if they could drive right past the tree

that bears the char of another Porsche circa 1972—silver

with my brother at the wheel, aflame—

straight out of Tennessee speeding through Texas

on that glorious new stretch of highway where the limit is eighty-five,

far beyond the cancer hospital in Houston where our father died,

barely downshifting at the border waving to the officer in the booth

as the Two Harolds smile all the way to the frothy Gulf,

the car rolling to a stop as they climb out to meet the shimmering sea.