Ford and man aim stiffly toward the frame,
Ranch Wagon north, my father somewhere south --
But who can picture either one of them?
I see that car, I guess, my acrid youth,
Flash of chrome, fogged screen -- and, when we moved,
That cat we hit, flopped from its crushed skull
On the road behind. My father said it proved
All dodges cancel out; All Ahead on Full,
He said, and don't look back. How did he know
We'd lose the road, and swerve from off the plan
When crooked routes misled, or that we'd throw
His maps away? *Just do the best you can,
That's all I ask.* The camera clicks... time's torn...
I'm seven, eight... last sister's just been born...