tempo

by Steven J. Serafiani

I would sit in the back seat of my father’s ford tempo and daydream,
stare out the window,
the sun glimmering through the trees,
silent kid even more silent,
eyes wandering the streets of my hometown,
Chicago suburb,
not every corner familiar,
look over at my father,
his hands strong on the steering wheel,
changing positions with every turn,
turn signal clicking,
stop lights changing,
scenery rolling by,
my mind the explorer,
stare at my protector,
my father with eyes baggy from post office third shift,
I enjoyed the longer drives,
just my father and I,
my imagination the conjurer,
the radio low,
talk radio,
politics,
I longed for the car rides,
just my father and I,
my mind able to drift off,
not girls yet,
no lust,
just the sound of tires humming and thumping,
my father with his hands strong,
tempo rolling and braking and rolling,
I would just sit in the back seat of the early nineties blue ford and daydream,
my father listening to talk radio,
my mind the adventurer,
my father the protector.

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