The yuppy drove a black beamer.
At least that’s the car I’ve given him
in the flickering Kodachrome film
that loops golden-green behind my eyes.
He probably wasn’t a yuppy.
That’s a label that popped up a lot
when my dad and uncle got together.
Dusty was hit hard in the ribs
after sprinting onto Beaver Brook Rd.
The yuppy’s vision was likely obscured
by curtains of bittersweet
(Southern Connecticut kudzu),
and he probably was driving too fast
to notice the dog had escaped the confines
of Dad’s rattle-trap van,
and in a burst of sawdust and beer cans,
bounded off to meet his maker.
(a yuppy in a black beamer).
Uncle Dougie and Turbo Ned chased the bastard
because the yuppy didn’t do the right thing,
which is to stop and at the very least apologize.
So they peeled out in their pickup
(at least I think it was a pickup)
petal to the metal down black rat snake roads
hot from baking in the sun.
My dad, his tall, thin frame folded over a limp brown dog
like that Picasso’s painting of an old man and his guitar.
My dad. He didn’t get into the pickup to chase down
the asshole yuppy speeding in his beamer.
The asshole yuppy who pulled over
and Uncle Dougie and Turbo Ned
(probably riding his bumper and weaving)
blew right by him.
Uncle Dougie and Turbo Ned who later said
they hadn’t gotten a good look at the car.
And my Dad too distracted by a small dog dying in his arms.
And the yuppy in the black beamer
pulled over by a curtain of bittersweet
watching the pickup disappear down the road.