Cars Tell Secrets

I can tell who I am
By my car,
Even now,
After only a summer with her.
The cassette tapes resting proudly
In any crevice,
Bearing the Beach Boys, Billy Joel,
And the Police for all eyes and ears
To enjoy like I do.
A beach towel lies in the back seat
With a hardy pair of sunglasses
And an over-chlorinated watch.
One golden, suede-sole shoe
Lies on the passenger seat,
Her sister fell off next to the umbrella
And giant roll of duct tape.
I find the empty can of Arizona tea
Very telling.

The car that belongs to my father
Tells more about my sister,
What with the apple stickers
Over the driving wheel
And sheet music scattered over every
Space in the car for passengers
And mixed with work schedules.
His only trace is found in the radio stations,
Aside from the setting for the classical one,
And the window stickers for his alma mater.
His presence is drowned out by the extra clothes
Covered in grass, blue paint, and mud,
Especially the ragged tennis shoes.
Not to mention,
The seat is pulled way close to the wheel.