all the way down to those days
when I sat snug between their opposing loins
in the cab of his Ram.
He hung his cigarette out the window,
but smoke made its way back inside.
The forthright wind keeping habits
under the noses of our annoyed,
beloved.
I thought of asking why
he didn’t bring his green glass for the ride
as he would often do. But that was between us
when only us would go to Uncle Whomever’s house.
I kept my head down most of the ride
in case the forthright rain
might penetrate the windshield,
or because I reacted
to dodging fireballs
and tumbling boulders
on my Gameboy.
I ignored the corn
as it was ceaseless, everywhere
even in his drink,
because it was everything
I could imagine
corn might taste like
if mashed into foam.
Because I sipped it once
and likened the flavor to corn
And he would allow it
And he would sigh
And he would say don’t tell your
But she was occupied the whole way,
twisting the radio dial
trying to keep the static out of my ears
everyday.
George T. Mormann 