DAD’S 442

A lump in his groin,
a hernia, he figured;
but a biopsy fingered
a fatal prognosis.

Over the G W Bridge,
sobbing all the way,
I vowed to keep him strong
for the battle ahead.

Chemo blows and radiation beams
left him wishing he was dead.

The cavalry came: an Olds 442
to relieve his tired Chevy Nova.

A V8,
four on the floor,
dual exhausts,
single snout intake
and everything chrome.

Dad was ready to roll.

The power and thrust
drove him on for almost two years,
till ravaged inside
by a malevolent vine.

In his final days, tied to a bed,
what was left of him pled:

“I want to go home in my 442.”