Windshield smeared with dust. Sun bedded down
in the hills. Drum of my father’s hand on the dash startling
the box-nails in the ashtray. Stub he held delicately in his teeth.
Silence we passed back and forth between us, like a joke.
Knowing one day we would stop speaking for good. Knowing it
when the freeway cut ahead of us and Natick fell away
on either side. When he held up his hand to mine, palm
to palm. Nail beds packed with grease. Knuckles more scar
than skin. When he said I had piano hands,
and I was ashamed, and hid them in the pockets of my coat.