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Back Seat Driver A. M. Wheatley My Dad reads signs: Indiana, 100 miles, Gas Station Reading grinds moments in memory, markers of history, passing highway, surrounded by corn, He says: Combines He refers to people by skin. He says: Black, colored, Oriental Thinks all food with noodles: Chinese I read signs in Spanish testing each syllable Tacqueria I refer to people as American African-American Asian-American Caucasian when referring to myself. My Dad holds his fork, hesitantly, pondering before placing tines between teeth eats too much bread before the entrée I, place napkin in lap, remember salad fork, try not to drink before the toast My Dad speaks with a drawl tells stories, long and filled with side-trips clears his voice frequently Unlike my clipped East Coast filtered into West Coast flatness edges straining consonants My Dad read signs, places, maps, postcards He says: Memphis, Rest Area, Gas Station |
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