#fatherandsonrelationships
Along the tidelot shore between “H” and “I”—
a green Lancer in the high weeds catches my eye.
Though not a classic by any means,
it’s rare
as they come—still proud of its sheen.
Its factory lime paint, still fresh and bright—
chrome bumper glistens there in the sunlight.
Black sidewall tires faded and cracked,
once kissed highways, now sag on their jacks.
I see the owner some mornings, coffee in hand,
running a palm along the hood, thinkin’ it grand.
Familiar, the creak when the door opens—
driver’s seat formed to his father’s proportions.
Turning the key—a shudder, a gasp, then—the ghost in the machine slumbers again.
Its speedometer’s stuck at sixty-eight—
the engine left unturned on Father’s Day.
No flowers. No cards. No one to see—
only the car, the wind, and the weeds.
It lingers there, between regret and rot,
leaving the crickets to finish his son’s thoughts.
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Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 11:32 PM UTC