Before you found yourself
sitting with your eyes shut,
lifting closer to heaven
as your head phones poured
Pet Sounds into your ears,
you sat in the back seat
while your dad drove slowly
through town, his left arm
dangling out the rolled down
window holding a cigarette.
You hoped he would turn
on the radio, quickly tire
of the all news station
and switch to the good guys
on WMCA, the top ten counting
down to Help Me Rhonda.

Your fingers drum lightly
against your thighs,
you mouth along the words
to the chorus. Stopping
at the next corner, girls
from your fifth grade class
cross the street, wave thanks.
As the guitar fades away,
your father glances
in the rear view mirror,
watches your head move,
follow Claire and her cut offs
turn the corner. He catches
your eye and nods
as if he knows something
you still hadn’t figured out.

First published in Commonthought