Irv remembered his mother pointing out cars and naming them for him

As they walked down to Market Street,

Ford, Buick, Packard . . .

And once walking back home he started

Naming them for her, to her surprise,

For although he couldn’t read

And his eyes were only at hubcap level,

What he heard and saw blended into a murmur

Of recollected names, amid

Sleek convertibles filled with teenagers,

The points and angles of a tail-fin-crazy world,

Radio aerials whipping the air

With raccoon tails flying from them.

We Shall Bury You . . .

a billboard said

In large letters underneath Khrushchev’s giant head,

A Cold War threat that resonated;

But graffitied under it, in beautiful cursive

Catholic-school handwriting that only a nun

Could have taught, in black crayon, was inscribed

In God We Trust . . . The past rolls on and the older

You get the less you resist, and the farther away

The brighter it seems.