she could have run GM or Ford,
high school grad standing at the sink
beneath the clock that kept much more than time;
every day at five,
before dad, the kids,
as if to put the sun where it belonged,
she fit her soul into its margins,
there to stay
except behind the wheel
of our mint-green BelAir coupe,
three-speed on the column,
cutting corners,
cruising past right-laners at the limits
of their daily drives,
traffic titan in her office,
snap decisions marking every bend,
resource acquisition from her bullish day:
market gains
garnered in their Kroger bags
brokered, banked,
obediently lined across the back
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