The Drive Home
Mottled, strange spaces in between the pisses of rain—
odd how death can creep
into every dullish nook, every sleepy zag.
Well, Daddy’s drivin’
& I’m in the backseat soaked to the skin,
the red dye from my Chinese cloth shoes
bleedin’ my white socks pink. It is twenty-some years
ago, after the airshow.
My brother’s ridin’ shotgun ‘cos my mouth
is just not quick enough ever to claim it for mine.
Beyond all other disappointments
(the ruined shoes, the missin’ Mutter),
there is still the solace of the Rabbit’s warm engine
& its reliable vinyl dryness &
my father in front of me, a stout & military man—