Not just because the monthly fee
is automatically snatched from my
checking account, and not simply

because a clean car runs better,
as my father used to say, and not
because it’s easy to drive through,

the driver’s front tire grabbed
by the conveyer, the car and I
pulled through the deluge,

which still makes me grin, as it did
when, in our youth, Dad found
the rare car wash that allowed

us to ride inside, the old Chevy
morphing into a spaceship,
my sister and I watching the deep

blues and fiery reds shimmy down
the windows like liquid star trails,
Dad echoing our ooh’s and ahh’s

as we three were transported
through the magic tunnel.
“Good as Disneyland, huh?”

he’d say, and we, who had
begun our lives an orange grove
away from the Magic Kingdom

had to admit that it was
pretty darn close. I still love
the car wash blues, baptizing

the four wheels that carry me
everywhere, the holy water of suds,
the benediction of the rinse

and the blesséd flap-flap of
lasagna-shaped chamois riding
the windshield. Not to mention

the miracle of emerging clean
and, with luck, a space to sidle
into where a long-nosed nozzle

will suck up the schmutz
on the floor mats, where a
green towel can wipe away

all manner of sins on windows,
Father grinning from his spot
in the firmament,

the car purring like a happy
cat soaking up the attention,
loving all that love.