740 Wagon
The engine perspires,
to give voice to fabric,
and I am the kidnapper’s ransom.
Our wagon is rusted now,
stuck in a farmhouse.
Driver’s seat, smells the same,
father’s cologne,
pre-trip he’d spray its skin,
wheel and flesh like parts of him.
Along 75 to Michigan,
I’d touch the corners,
four walls moving,
like four friends talking.
I’d lay in the back on my side,
the highway lights streaming,
fall asleep in one place,
to wake up in another.
My mother, the passenger, singing:
“The ship and its movement,
straight, corner, turn,
station, road, station,
gasoline and my oars.”
