Just Like My Father

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.

“Nobody cares.”

 

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

all along.

 

 

 

DeMaris Gaunt

7-6-11

 

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