Poem of the Day: Parallel Parking

Buffy looms under the hosta—grey-striped and almost feral--

as she stalks Cloud. Beyond the garden, the street is empty

until the driver’s ed car coasts toward my house,

stopping beside the neighbor’s red truck

so the student can perform the parallel

park of the evening. She proceeds so slowly

that the cats watching her get bored and spy

a squirrel to chase up the sycamore. The student driver inches

backwards into the space behind the red truck,

so careful, so precise. But the car is too angled,

and she can’t complete it. Her fingers spread in a fan

of exasperation above the wheel. Every weekday evening

around six, another student and teacher come by

in the silver driving school car to attempt the maneuver.

I have found myself cheering them on, reveling in their

successes and almost tearful when the car won’t fit.

*This poem was written when I lived in downtown Bartlesville, in the house in the picture.