(for Georgann)

Yeah, I retired that license plate
when I donated the car to the public
radio station some years back,

and Dick removed the plates
for me because I wasn’t letting
those go, seeing as how

you claimed them as your first
published piece of writing,
coming up with the phrase,

as you did, on the spot at
the State Fair one broiling
August day at the DMV booth.

You paid for them, too—
your birthday present, you said—
though I protested,

I can’t put those on my car.
People will think I’m bragging.
And you, mischievous light

in your eyes, popped back:
Not spelled like that.
Because, of course, it had

to fit in seven letters. Dick
added the umlaut over the ü
to fancify it. For years

my students knew that
I was on campus when they
saw my car. And today

the roses are blooming their
fool heads off on the plate
affixed to the backyard

fence—both of them full
of fragrant remembrance
of you.