I loved that car.
More than any other car I owned.
More than the burgundy Infiniti with the cracked windshield,
More than the black, supposed-to-be-turbo-charged, Chrysler and
more than the Jaguar with the Chevy engine.

I loved that car’s looks:
her camel leather interior; her lipstick-red exterior; her toplessness.
She was a flirt, a vamp.
Drivers swooned, crooned, “Nice car,” “Sweet car.”
She returned the compliments with a knowing honk.

And that amazing heater.
During many a Chicago winter,
it kept me warm as Swedish toast,
a remarkable feat for any car,
especially a convertible.

And the Red Saab’s sound system.
It played Springsteen’s Born in the USA album
so tirelessly, the upholstery knew all the words and
could sing along.

I especially loved that car on warm summer nights,
driving through an arbor of leafy streets, top down,
music playing, my head tilted back …
Just me in the Red Saab cruising along together.