Poetry and Poetics
My father wanted me to know
what it was like to discover oil spots
on a driveway, so he flushed the toilet
while I showered that afternoon,
and barked, Get Dressed.
Beads of sweat slid down his face
as he pointed
to lines on the dipstick:
Japanese characters for expressing
whether or not our hatchback needed motor oil.
I felt my jacket pockets
for my keys and wallet.
My father's words were snuffed out
by the Vroom! Vroom! of Julie
and her coy giggle
as I hopped in the car.
My bony hand waved good-bye
as we sped past the stop sign
with bullet holes in the letters,
clusters of rust in the corners.
© by Joey Nicoletti
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