Driving Home from Keyworth’s

Sharing the lap belt, we slide imperfectly into each other

as Dad speeds through an overpass. His daddy raised

Porsches—he raced  Porsches—but he is not his father. He doesn’t have

the money to have bad ideas and this is a new truck so we

better not touch something we’re not supposed to. My brother

and I share a Zippo and Swiss Army Knife. All we are allowed

to light are our own birthday candles. Mom says we can cut

the beige-dead slack off of grass. Wanna see the seat belt catch

fire? one of us whispers. The other one replies, No, let’s watch

Dad drive. So we do. Our love is not yet fooled away from worship.

Everything our father does has wings. And because we behaved

while he left us in the car with the engine running as he ducked

into Keyworth’s Hardware store, Dad lets us pretend to steer.

Each of us on a knee, our inherited hands, pulling. We tussle

up the driveway. They are saving us an ashtray fortune, dimes

collide with quarters. My brother, his blond hair, calls out about

a squirrel five yards away that might run into the road. Dad shouts

with joy-of-the-moment, Kids!  We raise our keen eyes and yodel

and howl—I’m being ridiculous now. But have you ever sat next

to a person and known the home of your own name?