Keys

Reluctantly, he handed over the key.  

The car had served him well over the years.  Truly, it was more valuable than what the blue book said.  Much more valuable.

The road trips led to memories of several lifetimes.  Driving down the coast, playing “I Spy” games like children impatient for the destination; singing silly songs; sharing secrets and stealing glances. 

Or the lazy Sunday afternoons, packing picnics of wine and cheese.  

Winter in the Sierras, building snowmen and sliding on the sludge.

All the while the car: the ‘67 Ford Mustang. It got us there.  Everywhere. Ten years of squandering their youth — in the best way! — what was that line from that book?  “Driving like the damned on holiday”… as if there was another choice. Back then, it was nothing but the open road.  And intentions.  

It’s the next step, she assured.  Baby’s on the way. It was time to be practical. 

That word… a kind of death.

Garbo

Galatea was no match for
what Hollywood made of you.
Before the wave and braces;
before the dark, dark glasses,
before the movie magic machinery
you were real and pudgy,
an ordinary shop girl with bad teeth.
Then talent and timing conspired
like twin Pygmalions,
to sculpt you into something divine:
a temptress
with a stare that dared
and a pout full of doubt.
Amid torrential accolades
and ardent public fanfare,
your stern seduction
warning always of just a little something
sinister underneath
like the seductive Mata Hari,
her art enfeebling sex.
You are the two-faced woman,
weary of the melodrama
that you can't but help
until there was that inflected line...
taken and misconstrued
from one grand movie
to your majestic mystique:
I want to be alone
... And then Ninotchka laughed.

©2006 b.cisek