We would go to the hairpin bend
on the Black Mountain road
to wash the car from a trough
of water with special gifts,
so my big brother would pretend.
Splat-red dead flies, fly-squash mess,
littered the Hillman windscreen.
"Just one thing will get it off,"
he said, "mountain dew."
Younger, I was easy to impress.
It was finger-numbing cold water
sloshed on the glass with a sponge,
spitting back in the wind
with each trough to screen lob,
and true enough it did the job.