Jim Daniels
My wife's got both sets of keys.
The other car gathers dust
and fumes and slanted sunlight
in the garage. We have a soccer game
in fifteen minutes. I coach.
The field's a long walk -- he's only eight.
Time and distance do a little boogaloo,
and off we go, imagining we'll get there
on time. Soon, we're climbing the Big Hill
against the minutes, so I stick my thumb out
against reason and some guy in a van trades us
a ride for directions. We don't even put
our seat belts on -- what's one more
broken rule. My son's completely silent
as I fulfill my directional obligations.
Later, after the game -- we arrived on
time -- he brags to his sister
about how we hitchhiked and I'm
saying but and don't and never,
trying to remember the exact year
it became insane. The game stunk --
they got creamed by a merciless team
and their constantly angry coach barking
orders like the fierce watchdog
at Riley's Junkyard we used to taunt
on boring summer days, dreaming
of hitching cross-country. That dog
dug a hole under the fence and ran away --
got smacked by a pick up
six blocks away.
Dog hair on the back seat of that van.
On my clothes now.
Walking home.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Jim Daniels