Hubcap Twilight

My dad and I stood at the wire fence, gazing
at the wrecks in the junkyard. His powder blue
Chevy convertible, the one he’d called

his baby, barely recognizable with its crumpled
fenders and bashed in grill. One headlight hung
like an eyeball on its optic nerve. A hubcap

filled with twilight, the city traffic downshifting
on Broadway, thumping over the railroad tracks.
His Chevy would be hauled off in a few days.

I never knew where, but the point was that it cost
too much to fix, and we were here to say goodbye.
As the oldest of his three kids, he wanted

me to share in something I didn’t understand
about sacrifice, how a father can crash in traffic,
and how beginning starts without insurance.

Al Ortolani is a contributing editor to the Chiron Review. His poems have appeared in Rattle, One Art, and the Pithead Chapel. New York Quarterly Books plans to release his most recent poetry collection, American Watercolor, in early 2027.