We cleared Sunday lunch dishes
at top speed, piled into our crimson
convertible bug with Daddy at the wheel.
Mama waving bye down the driveway,
us squealing and tightening our grips
each time he floored it. My hair flying
in the wind like Wonder Woman,
Daddy grinning as I freed it from Mama’s
tightly plaited pigtails. He’d crank
up Jim Croce and we’d all sing along,
at least Mama Tried.