(for Sue Lester)

Though my best childhood buddy next door
grew up with a rare, red, actual racing Ferrari
prized by her father in their garage,
I was nurtured to adulthood by a dad
who could tear apart a Chevy engine
and put it back together, a skill he thought
every man should possess.

While Sue’s mother made homemade sourdough
bread we considered holy because of its gaps
that leaked jelly, my mother was, at best,
a TV dinner/Sloppy Joe’s/frozen veggies
kinda gal.

Pasta made only special guest appearances
(hello, Hamburger Helper!) on our table,
but when I’d go to others’ houses where
moms served spaghetti, or, better yet,
next door to delight in Mrs. Lester’s tuna
tuna and noodles, I was sure I was
consuming heaven on a plate.

Likewise, my car knowledge runs to
the Honda/Toyota/Hyundai variety,
despite a period when my late husband’s
1958 Porsche 356 A, reposed in pieces
in the garage.

So my mind boggled the other day
as I stood next to a purple Lamborghini
in a parking lot, a small piece of my brain
half thinking that the fancy Italian name
was a type of noodle.

But no. Even I could see that this was
not related to anything good for slurping
with good marinara, that this incredible
vehicle was far too classy—and ten times
more expensive—than the nine-year-old
Elantra I inherited from my mother.

But I could peer at the deep purple gem—
a color I adore, rarely seen on four wheels—
sensing that, even at rest, this terrestrial rocket
can whisk across the land at something
approaching 200 mph. And that it
costs the earth, too.

While I admired the brilliant Italian
engineering contained in its innards—
forgive me, Mr. Lester—I realized that
I do not covet its speed or style.

I’m happy with my fettucine of a sedan
that putters along life’s roads,
carrying me, with oodles of joy,
pretty much everywhere
I want to go.