Forgive me, Father,
for I have committed
the (I hope) pardonable
sin of not only paying
for a car wash, but not

using my own two good
hands to wash Mother’s
car, which I am using
a day a week to drive her

places, but which I am
also using every other day
to drive my older-than-you-
ever-knew-me self around.

That is not to say that I’m
incapable of washing a car
   —I’m not—
but there are days when
time is at a premium and
you’re driving right by
the car wash with the funky
name and cute duck logo,

and something whispers
in your ear (maybe the car
itself?), Wash me, which
someone could well have
drawn in the month-old leaf
grit dusting the back window.

And so, heeding the call of
the almighty beckoning, I
pull in, pay the it-costs-how-
much-but-I-don’t-care fee,
then pause at the maw
of the beast, always unsure
if I’ve correctly lined up
the left front tire in the slot
to carry us through.

But divine intervention, well,
intervenes, and as it tugs me in,
thou art with me. And I
am in the back seat with Donna,
and we are moving through a
long-ago car wash, thrilled that
we do not have to wait outside,
but that we, too, get to ride along—

blessed by the holy water of
powerful squirters, watching
the hula skirt chamois dance
over the windshield, feel
ourselves buffed shiny by
the whirling dervishes
that brush up and over us,

washed by heavenly purple
soapsuds, then blown out
by a supersized hair dryer,
and emerge into the light,
both squeaky and clean,

ready to drive off into our
lives, so powerfully absolved,
so unbelievably blessed.