Just Like My Father
It is an accident
when the man who parks next to me
bumps the car in front of him.
I see it happen,
though I can’t see if there’s damage
or how much.
Before the bump I saw him:
a gray haired man old as my father,
confidence cutting the wheel.
I can’t look him in the eye
can’t have him think I might be waiting
for him to leave a note or acknowledge his mistake.
How many times
have I sat behind my father,
his bumper punching the car ahead?
“Nobody saw,” he’d say
as my cheeks turned red.
I could roll down my window
prove my father wrong
but I’d rather
take him the story of my indifference
tell him there was one more thing he’d been right about