“Izzy Kasoff,” by Robert Pinsky

Who was he, why was he the one assigned
To drive me from the house to the cemetery?

The two of us in his Buick or Packard or some
Colonial make, De Soto, Pontiac, Plymouth.

I don’t remember who had died, what aunt
Or uncle or cousin we were going to bury.

I don’t know why he spent the hour-long drive
Lecturing a twelve-year-old about the faults

Of Peggy Lee, whose singing he denounced.
I barely knew who she was. Maybe he’d heard

That I was “musical.” I do remember
That was the year new cars were all bright colors:

Two-toned vermillion and baby blue, heraldic
Wing shapes with edgy arabesques of chrome.

Some other uncle explained that ten years after
The war it was to hell with black and khaki,

People want spices. On the road to the graveyard,
Maybe the singer and I both stunk of the present

To Izzy Kasoff, who married Dave Pinsky’s sister
And adopted Dave’s daughter when the mother died—

Maybe his grievance was with not death or music
But the great story of it all becoming past.