by Diane G. Martin
License plate 0183,
almost a memorial plaque,
or a speakeasy door sentry,
guides the eye down long, sleek Packard
sides to Great Aunt Lillian’s well-
heeled foot, well-turned ankle poised, posed
to slide in or out behind the wheel,
who knows? Door open, she turns
sepia bled, flapper-cloched smile
sidelong to the viewfinder, queen
for a decade, radiant till
the big crash. Our Fuller Brush girl
married up, was bountiful for
a short while, as this bleached snapshot
testifies. Beyond the flash car,
a large restaurant extends. But
who’s that lurking to the side, near
hidden, crutches nowhere to be seen,
his face in stripes, like blinds, sliced sheer
by folded, stacked convertible top.
Peering eyes, between, is Uncle Gene.
October 10, 2016,
Sansepolcro, Italy
About the Author
Diane G. Martin is a graduate of Willamette University and is a Russian literature specialist. She has been awarded the Diana Woods prize for creative nonfiction, and published in several publications including OJAL, Poetry Circle, and New London Writers. She is also a photographer who has been exhibited in the United States, Russia, and Italy.
