When You Were

You were pine scented card stock

dangling from the rearview mirror on elastic string,

packs of tissues strapped to the visor, 

and a little American flag fixed to the rear antenna-

when you were.

You were cans of Pepsi, 

cigarette butts in ashtrays all around,

and sweatshirts printed with cutesy cats, bears, and flowers.

You were snores on the sofa with the TV on loud-

true crime stories,

Irish folk songs, 

and the turn-dial TV,

bright white sneakers with shamrock laces

or American flags.

You were transitional lenses slow to adjust,

hair mousse, painted nails,

and yellow American cheese wrapped in paper and plastic from Acme.

You were egg drop soup, custard cups, and the corner store.

You were microwaved mugs of Lipton black tea, 

Oh When the Saints Go Marching In blaring on your hip,

God Bless America in light snow that February.

I can hear it now.

You were popular, authentic, and distinct.

I still remember the smell of your house,

that shelter for wayfaring family and friends, decade after decade.

It’s someone esle’s home now.

I wonder if you visit.

I still feel the icy shock of the kitchen tiles on bare feet in the mornings,

the twinge of fourteen years gone by with no new memories of you.

Still, we were lucky.

You were here for a while.

You were ours

and you loved us

when you were.