driving this night alone I remember my father
and his Sunday jaunts, the ones he sometimes
took me on, sometimes didn’t, where he visited
his friends in their homes, at bars, at
restaurants. The wheel feels weak in my hands,
the steering less stable, less sure. If an
animal or person were to wander out in front
of me, would I react fast enough, would I
swerve in time, would my foot take too long
to jam on the brakes? My father’s face relaxing
more and more with each beer, each
visit, each stop, his eyes open but not seeing,
his smile widening, his voice changing,
his words slurring, the subject matter making
less and less sense. The lights bathe the road
ahead and I wonder why I don’t just turn
around and go home, like I had planned
three stops ago. The next bar pulls
me like a space particle to a planet, the
atmosphere up ahead.
*as published in Bravura Literary Journal
Very evocative, and haunting.
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thanks.
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I’m moved by your poem. *sharing*
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thank you.
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