|Cole, Bristol, VA|
'I am growing up,'
my ten year old son says,
an inarguable point---from the back seat,
my thumb pinched tight under
the steering wheel, fingers drum
drum-drumming to Christmas songs
A white four door, maroon
van, car after car after---a couple million people
alternating between gas & brakes, hurtling
tons of steel toward somewhere to be
the bypass off ramp bends right
& i follow, click-click, click-click, click-click
turn signal morse code for keep
'This time next year, I may have a beard,'
he adds, grinning ear to ear & chest
puffed in the rear view mirror
'ha, i think you're safe,'
a man, more bush than face, the top
shoved in a stocking cap, cardboard
epitaph in hand says 'I AM here'
subtitled 'need food'---stands in the grass
where the road straightens by the mall,
a cop, as well, pointing him on---
tail lights fLasH
'yeah, and then you'll get pit hair,'
my youngest digs
'eww, no i won't
& won't wear deo
'oh yes, you will
whether you want to or not,'
we laugh, traffic breaks,
i suck Garlic biscuit & black coffee
off my teeth from breakfast---not
the taste you want
to start the day with,
but we don't always get a choice
when it comes to our
'you'd stink too,' again
his brother, but he's moved
'how much longer til we get home?'
anxious for the next thing
'sometimes it's better
you don't ask, just enjoy the ride,'
a V of birds crosses the cotton ball sky,
rain polka-dots the wind-
Over at dVerse, Fred has us writing first person narrative poems...not too hard for me as i do that quite often...he'll be opening the pub around 3 pm...so go, get writing. Smiles.