My father’s hands big as thirteen inch radials
knuckles thick like good tread
cover more miles than the road we’re on
driving south to Shiloh, south to his hometown
I’m along to steer free of ditches
roadside stands slapped shut for winter
cornstalks breaking down in the snow
and like the phone lines routing I-29
he strings stories
stories of scattered flesh and spent mortor
touring Italy in 1945, the smell of flesh
like a 4th of July barbeque
of sweating malaria, diphtheria, morphine
how my mother loved him home again
He wanted to choreograph bridges
galvanized stages leaping the Missouri
Mississippi, the Arkansas rivers
Instead, he danced the assembly line shuffle
the rhythm of tool and die
He engineered field trips to the Pepsi plant
aerodynamic ramps for our bikes
forged King Kong tall Erector set cities
Barbie doll runways, fairways
with Troll rides and a penny toss
Evening narrows the horizon
pulls dusk to our chin
and I am grateful for ten more hours of road
Writing 