I drove dad’s Chevy for the first time one morning
In a storm.
His old, blue, dented, beat-up, ninety-seven Chevy,
Worn tires tractionless on wet asphalt,
Raindrops veiling the windshield like the comforter
That keeps me warm and safe during the nights I
Spend at home, thick and grey with a glint of silver, and
Pintucked stitching littering the middle.
The lines on the road, like the seams of the comforter,
Break evenly and cleanly, stretch on forever.
My knuckles, like little snow-capped mountains,
Gripped the steering wheel as I did the covers during a nightmare.
Dad, on the other hand,
Was as calm as the breeze curling around the trees on
Any day but today;
Relaxed as if the forecast were fine as the
Silk of the duvet.

a jittering small white feather

set to the tip of a branch.

seen through the derelict watch

of unclean windows.

the tractionless, extra light scratches

of a waterbug on the wooden floor.

the monstrous ingression of traffic

heard in a truck's gasp-growl.

The seating of cafe patrons saw minds

measuring space.

More exact with the inexact, as to

encompass something of mind.

A fine drizzle g spotted greenery

outside, as beaping horns coincided with

the draggy swash of an espresso

machine.

Producing the skidding sound of

tractionless tires, which momentarily

made one scan the street for a collision.

The circular logic of round tables were

inescapably bright.

Cropping up in the middle of

conversations after closing time.

Thus completing the orbits of business

hours, with missed crumbs more

profound than takeaways.