I’m passionate about dancing and playing with words. Sometimes a poem appears.
Car Ride
He proposes a picnic
on the pretense of one last drive in the Model A
before putting it in the garage for winter.
I boil eggs (the idea birthed, in part,
because we have an abundance;
I brought home a dozen; he outdid me with a flat)
and make sandwiches
with Miracle Whip on white bread,
wrap, and put them in the fridge.
At lunchtime, he suggests an alternative:
lunch and a chess game at the dining table,
followed by a drive in the Ford.
It’s late-season, and the car has no heat.
It’s a reasonable compromise. At the appointed hour,
I pull a black felt cloche hat onto my head,
and (the 1931 car, inviting manners of the era)
wait for him to open the passenger-side door
so I can climb in. He takes us for a
bumpy ride
on a prairie road.
Shifting
and smiling
the entire time.