flung in the back of the '55
Chevy like another suitcase
the child knew not where they were going
only that they had been there before

more than once, when Daddy's
drink turned to anger, and anger
turned to fists pounding a boss
and another job was lost

and the child would again see
the lights of the town vanish: he, the car,
his preternaturally silent momma, his hung over
father would become part of the night

another flight, this time from Gallup
New Mexico, where Daddy had tried
to out drink every Navajo in every bar
and almost did

on these nocturnal hegiras, the child
would lie and stare at the headliner--the round
dome light a faint moon against
a mysterious sky

beams from passing cars
would roll across his otherwise
empty constellation, transforming dark
matter into fleeting nebulae

this, his wide world, while a slow
clock spun, and tires hummed, eternally,
until his father announced where they
were going this time

Iowa, a place the child
conflated with Ohio, vowel sounds
similar, soft and more meaningful than
marks on maps--Cedar something...

Cedar Rapids, and the child knew rapid
and rapid meant fast and fast meant soon, only
a few more saturnine stars around his dome
light moon, soon