Someone else’s father
I took a road trip once, with Death
trying to hitchhike in my sister’s car.
A broke-back Chevy, neon orange
from its former life, highway patrol car.
We should have turned right. Taken
the exit to Annapolis. But the maps
to that life were written somewhere else
and we took the turn for nowhere.
She drove us down a guttered street
no lights, no houses. Boarded windows
like blind eyes watching. Listening.
Stubborn as only two sisters can be
we kept on going. Drove to the end
of the road. And with our backs against
the wall, we spun 180.
Too dumb to be afraid, we did know
to be careful. So we pulled over
stopped at the familiar golden arches.
The tired man my father’s age walked
out to the car, showed us the way home
and warned us: white girls don’t come around here.
Go home. Death, that sly bastard, rolled his eyes.
Found someone else to ride with.
Thank you, someone else’s father. Thanks.