The Fabulous
Some of the stories I made up
years and years ago are true now.
I made them better and better
with each retelling, back when
they hadn’t yet set up as fact
with every last detail perfect,
but some may have been true
all along: how Charlie Solheim
let me climb into the hot trunk
of his red and white `39 Chevy
customized five-window coupe,
and ride around in the dark,
cramped in the wooly dust
and exhaust till he and his
high school girlfriend, Dorothy,
finally parked and got it on
so Charlie could prove it to me.
I couldn’t tell where we were,
the stuffy dark quiet but for
some crickets, and Dorothy’s
moaning, the three of us rocking
together. I can’t be certain
that it really happened, can’t
remember anything of being
let out of the trunk after Charlie
had taken Dorothy home, but
the rest of it seems real today.
I just don’t know. Seventy years
can do that to a story.
