inches
from the curb.
The grey glowing
hood is a warm mirror
watching
the slow hours of my practice.
The grey glowing hood is
the ABC book of
what fathers can’t say.
And, under a paper towel, beneath the
gear shift, us.
The mystery
switch.
Soft touch for two
clicks and one
turn. Controls rubbed blank.
Worn down, whole,
touch, memory.
And in the grey
glowing, our
orange umbrella, rainlight
reflection,
my son
on my shoulders, my
back-up heart
zipped back up.