over the Mississippi

in 1983

we drove all night

our lumbering van puffed and heaved

much like my grandmother’s smoker’s cough

my father,

hands at 2 and 10

eyes slit, intent upon the road

my mother,

slumped against the window,

lights painted her doughy face

harsh red, oranges 

huddled in the back,

nose pressed against cold glass,

we paused at the light, and

I desperately stared into a polished window,

those perfect girls,

pink leotards,

swirled, stretched

slim, young mothers

sat against the smooth yellow wall

cringed, winced with each jump, leap

 

light changed and I watched,

until it was nothing but a speck

and even then, I strained,

tried to make it still there 

my father swerved to miss

smashing into a tattered rag-clad thing- person

hunkered down, wolfing the remains

from a discarded mcdonald's bag

his worldy possessions tumbled together

into a safeway cart

“Bastard”, he muttered

woke my mother, who in turn,

shook out another cigarette,

blew smoke in his face

then we crossed the Mississippi,

lights on the bridge diamonds

to my six-year old brain

I was rich in that moment,

the swollen river surging beneath me

reflecting tiny sparkles 

I was wearing a leotard,

and I was dancing

 

and my mother and father,

they were dancing, too