IF ELVIS WERE ALIVE, HE WOULD BUY ME THIS CAR

If Elvis were alive, he would buy me this car.

He would buy me this red BMW Z3 
That fits like a tight cashmere sweater.
Just look at those curves.

Testosterone? Forget it! 
This car runs on estrogen.
It redefines hot flash.

Even a 30-minute test drive feels like a rally.
A chance to bring home trophies.
Twelve-year-olds ogle.
A high schooler smiles.
A college student with one of those undefinable Euro-accents,
actually passes the time of day.

My real life car carries recycling detritis, 
bags of peat moss and potting soil.
This one restricts itself to a bikini, a hand towel, and a credit card.
Or a baguette and a little container of pate.

I know the truth: Elvis is dead.

But somewhere behind my blended bifocals
Simmers real freedom.
If I wanted to sacrifice
Imaginary security in my dotage
For imaginary sex appeal in this uncertain age,
Much as I would enjoy the Kingšs attention,
I could buy this toy for myself.

There on your knees
The chair backed up to the counter top
Your wild blonde curls ponytailed
To keep them out of the cookie dough,
You concentrate precocious 3-year-old energy
On the flat-bottomed glass held carefully in both hands.
Into the sugar you press the greased bottom, picking up crystals.
Then flatten the cookie ball, top it with crunchy sweetness,
All in one careful motion.
You look up, projecting blue-eyed intensity.
Back to the sugar. Then press.
Back. Then press.
Don't mash, I counsel.
Then as quickly as you master the technique, 
You move on.
A puzzle calls. A book. Pooh. Arthur. Lion King. Mary Poppins.
You pause in your animated adventures long enough to
Stoop down and watch the edges crisp through the hot window.
Then we share the sugar cookies with
All your friends and your mom and dad and your uncle.
And I hope that before you completely outgrow
Our warm kitchen companionship
You'll have this sweet recipe
Committed to memory.

THE RECONSTRUCTED MAN

Breathing the glow of dark silence
Avebury stands in memory
Stones within stones
Stone houses
Altars
Mile markers
Deep ditches deep in shadow and more shadow
Bones and antlers ceremonially buried.

And in the homely museum
The reconstructed man
Dismissed at first, some modern's made-up doll.
But blue eyes speak a sudden surprise
And 4000 years away
I breathe with him in the silence
We watch, understand more than we know
And wait among the stones for the blessing of the moon.

TO MY FATHER

Fiddling, finding, figuring.
Starting things you didn't finish.
Taking them far enough to see how they might work.
That was enough.

Dreams were your finished product.
Perfect.
No split boards, no hopes gone haywire.
Just the endless potential of unfinished perfection.

Now you've started another dream.
But this one required that you finish the old one.
And so it is, true to your style,
Finished, but not complete.