Flying Home (poem)

we are riding

riding the black wheels singing

singing the brown cows flying

flying by

"Betty, get that kid

out of the goddamn ashtray.

If I have to stop. . . .

her hands:  pale-white,

slender birds,

gathering the gray dust,

chalking her fingers

we are speeding

speeding black wheels passing

passing black wheels leaving

leaving the high blue sky

 "Jesus Christ--can't you

keep him still?

He's driving me crazy. . . ."

her voice, small and warm:

   "Gerry, he just wants to see."

and I fold up small

in her warm arms

and at last, we are riding

riding up the narrow

steep drive to Pa

a short, fat man guarding his house

and my father grabs him--

"Papa, I've come back."

and their sun-polished stone

faces fuse together

as my father's tear washes

a single track into their golden face

"Baby, don't cry. . . ."