I still take the long way
past that house you bought with him
even though it adds 20 minutes
to anywhere I'm going
I tell myself it's just habit
muscle memory on the wheel
but I slow down every time I hit the oak tree
at the corner and there it sits,
that same blue Ford
faded a little more but still wearing rust like a scarbed
one I taught you to pedal apart but when you
were 17 crying because you kept hitting the curb
I said easy darling she's tougher than she looks you laughed
wiped your nose on my flannel and three tries later you nailed it
now there's a booster seat in the back
window and a new den on the passenger door
looks like someone didn't quite clear the mailbox
that same blue Ford is parked in someone else's lot
like a washing machine on the porch,
kids bikes in the yard
same cracked windshield I never got fixed
still spiderwebbed at exactly where it was
I taught you how to drive in that
truck you learned how to leave in it
till now every scratch I know by heart is the
scenery in a story that doesn't include me anymore
I remember the night you stalled it on the railroad track
headlights of the freight train coming both of us screaming
I threw it in neutral
you popped the clutch like I taught you
we lurched forward just in time
hearts hammering you turned to me laughing and
crying all at once said I thought we were gonna
die I kissed you right there with the engine
ticking high told you not on my watch baby
not tonight funny I couldn't keep that
promise after all I wonder if he knows a
brake lights to stick when it's cold if
you still reach for the radio now with
your left hand if you ever tell him why you flinch your trains up
that same blue Ford is living without
me got a new sticker on the back glass
little league team the tailgate I
painted twice it scratched the hell again
and the den on the passenger side looks
fresh like maybe you finally stopped
being careful like maybe you finally stopped being afraid
and God I hope that's true even if it
kills me sometimes I dream I'm 16 again
teaching a girl with scared eyes how to
ease off the clutch she looks up and it's
not you it's our daughter who never
happened asking am I doing it right daddy
I wake up smoking on the smell of burnt
oil in your perfume still lives in the
upholstery somehow I drove by again
today you in the yard hair longer now
chasing a dark-haired kid with your
smile he ran straight to that truck like
it was home climbed up on the running
board you used to need my hands for you
lifted him into the driver's seat and
for one second I swear you look right at
me but the Sun was in your eyes maybe
you just didn't recognize the man in the
rearview of the life you outgrew that
same blue Ford started right up for you
like it always did like I never could
keep her between the ditches baby she's
still tougher than she looks and if the
brakes ever stay telling to pump them
twice the way I taught you
the way you taught me how some things leave
distance never quite come out