Moving To The Motor City, '62

That year baby brother released
the parking brake on the station wagon,
bashing a parked Cadillac across a street
made of basketweave brick.
Baby sister was the only white girl
in her kindergarten, her head a wispy
dandelion in a shady meadow.
In winter the hairs in our noses froze.
The two boys slept in the attic, crawling
out the window to perch on the roof peak
like a pair of wiry albino crows.
Mom typed. Dad went back for the funeral
of his twin after that accident with carbon monoxide
in his garage one hard-drinking Montana Saturday ...