Station Wagon

The heater clicks a steady beat,

a ghost inside the plastic dash.

I’m driving down a rain-slicked street

to make the morning’s coffee cash.

My coat is damp with city wool,

the vents are blowing dusty heat.

It makes the heavy memory pull

until I’m in the back-row seat.

The dashboard has that same green glow

it had when I was only ten.

It's three AM.

My father’s head is all I know,

and we are moving once again.