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
