window down, my fingers 
tracing circles into 
the wind.

jim croce crackles in AM
'...never seems to be 
enough time
to do the things 
you want to do 
once you find them.'

my warm face
follows your gaze
out into the road

how does a kid 
they are a son?
by the things
they notice
about their dad.

you whistle, i wonder.
when will i be
like you?

coffee would have
to taste good.

leaving early
and returning late
to dinner
laid out
for me 
would be 
a nice change.

and i'd have to know
all of the songs 
on the radio.

if i were mansized,
would I have to
wear a seatbelt?

you said that's why
you don't.
i wouldn't either
i guess.

we fly through
the morning
in your orange chevy
bracing over
small hills.

we defy gravity
in moments of
lift off

could i be 
like you?

that the rules
of physics did
not apply

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