The Drive Through
My father drives on, the rising sun
Just forward of his blind spot,
Pale faced and downward beaming
ear to ear into the flats of salt, then arches.
We eat, break, fast, drink
beer, soda or soft
drinks and I hold his hand.
America changes to wale skin
From dust, my father’s hand, shaking mine
On the stick of the transmission, the transition
To grey from a full head of dusty red
Sand ahead. The last hours on salt flats
Burn out, radio statics and I hold my breath.
The drive through, America
To new hues of deep blues seems too
See-through to be you
America.
poem by Braden Coucher
Added by Poetry Lover
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