Mark
Driving out, getting away,
ribbons of highway
beneath my wheels,
is the only way I feel
real these days.
It’s like my Mini and I have morphed,
like those transformer toys
I used to play with,
twisting joints
to turn hulky heroes
into mean machines.
My dad used to say he wished
he could fold up his cab
that way and become a big
strong man, with blades
for fingers, exhaust blasting
out of his heels, speeding
him away from the concrete
he spent his life driving on.
He always talked about Lebanon,
its white Mediterranean beaches,
twisty cedars and ancient ruins,
as if nothing here could compete,
not even me.
He was always comparing
me to my cousins in Beirut,
top of their classes
buckling down, busy
as beavers, building
futures, not
Out having fun
going to parties
dating girls
playing games
making money
flipping burgers.
Sometimes I wonder
if his last thought
was of me, yelling
at him to leave me
the fuck alone.