She, muscling pagan yellow
convertible around
empty gravel parking lot
decides figure-8 – and
does it
Daddy riding shotgun for
his life, his wind-
deranged hair, his wild
eyes, breaks squawking
cool brown-leafed night settling
over car hood, engine
panting at lot’s edge
lump gathering in his throat
all their years.
2007 by Robert Bové
To comment on this poem, click here.
If you have enjoyed this poem and want to read more poetry by Robert Bové click here.
Robert Bové contributes regularly to The Iconoclast, our Community Blog. Click here to see all his contributions, on which comments are welcome.
- Like
- Digg
- Del
- Tumblr
- VKontakte
- Buffer
- Love This
- Odnoklassniki
- Meneame
- Blogger
- Amazon
- Yahoo Mail
- Gmail
- AOL
- Newsvine
- HackerNews
- Evernote
- MySpace
- Mail.ru
- Viadeo
- Line
- Comments
- Yummly
- SMS
- Viber
- Telegram
- Subscribe
- Skype
- Facebook Messenger
- Kakao
- LiveJournal
- Yammer
- Edgar
- Fintel
- Mix
- Instapaper
- Copy Link