Linda B. Gamble

She sees him, tall, slender climbing
into that red Celica.
Don’t get a red one, she’d warned,
or a stick.
Home he and Dad came,
happy in cahoots,
her boy driving a red stick-shift.
Wonderfully maddening, those years,
tennis in fall, cross country in spring,
bright and full of himself, a rocket
ready for take-off – she misses
even those late nights waiting
for that damn car to pull in.

Waits still …. some nights hears
the phantom click of his trick
ankle on the stairs.