On weekends I would fly
with Daddy in his '66 Vette,
soaring past pedestrians,
engine screaming and my hand
flapping roller coaster tracks in the wind,
while Dad's Izods
smoothly shifted gears
and patted my leg.
Now, instead of sitting
in his sleek sportster,
I ride a grand car that creeps so slowly
my outstretched fingers cannot fly.
Bystanders turn grave faces downward
and there's no gloved hand
to pat my knee
or wipe away Mom's tears.
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