Vacation
He weaves the car with expert hands
A master of precision
Through turnpike's gleaming metal strands
At speeds so high, I must confess
They make me think of weightlessness
He glances at the seat in back
Where we are playing
And gives the rowdy ones a whack
While my eyes have gone astray
He spots a deer a mile away
Not quick enough to read a map
I let him do that too
But fasten tight my shoulder strap
And thus we crisscross through the nation
Pretending this is a vacation
Eva Hansen
Copyright (c) 2015
Used by permission
1 comment:
A poem about Daddy … these days he would not need the map.
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