(for our father Roger, who art, we imagine, in heaven,
and my sister Donna, who, happily, is still embodied)

I invoked your names today on the driveway
where more than a half century ago

one of you taught us how to wash a car,
and the other promptly set about doing so

weekly for 50 cents a vehicle, always beating
me to the punch and doing a bang-up job

on the Toyota and Chevy that lived in our
garage—where, just outside today, I stood

spraying off Mother’s Elantra, which I am
now driving, because, Father and Sister

forgive me, it has been three weeks since
its last wash and detailing to a fare-thee-well

by the Car Wash Goddess, then entrusted
into my care squeaky clean for Momdays

(which, I understand, some call Mondays)
when I drive her around and on other days

when I drive just me around. And though
I am not doing a thorough wash with

bucket and soap and sponge and chamois,
I have also watered the thirsty plants in

both front and back yards where we once
climbed oak trees and soaked up sun like

lizards on days like today that will top out
at the century mark. And I am reasonably

sure that Mother’s baby car will dry just fine,
no spots, with a clean windshield, and if I

get a little wet in the process, no problem
on this near-the-end-of-summer afternoon,

all of you here in spirit, giving me, I like
to think, a thumb’s up for a job, while

not up to your impeccable standards,
that’s close enough, as Father would say,

for government work.