I remember the road,
          the air raging against us
                            while time refused to move.
          My father wore driving gloves
                  absurd shorts
                        a proud mullet.

            When we stopped for gas he’d take note:

• The odometer
• The amount of gas
• The reconciled mileage

             He’d check the oil each time.

Spitefully, the car gave up before he did,
                      and for three days in Virginia
            my sister and I waited for parts to arrive,
                          so he could fix it.
            and we-
                                        could get back on the road.

I remember he was always confident-
                  hopeful;
          only ever briefly apologetic,
                secreting his resentments away
                      to hasty whispers he alone could hear.

When we finally arrived in DC,
      we had two days left to visit the smithsonian…

I can’t remember why I enjoyed it so much.