Blasters

It didn’t matter that I was at the wheel
of my ‘57 Fairlane.
When we passed Estelle’s,
a white house on a hill,
a hand would reach over, beep the horn,
three or four beeps, sometimes a blast or two.
They were hoping one of her brothers,
Michael or Peter would come out
and beat me up. Her brothers, weightlifters,
wore masks soldering bars
in their father’s welding shop.
Years later, a different car, I parked,
and watched Estelle walk
through that door. She opened her last door
years ago, stepped into eternity.
Afternoons the Fairlane
slowed passing her house
I was mortified. I hated it, I loved it.