by Barry Vitcov.
Before seat belts,
we rolled around on the back seat of the ’52 DeSoto,
a gray beast weighing thousands of pounds,
with a sawhorse bench filling the space
between the front and back seats,
made flat with blankets and sheets.
Dad wouldn’t turn on the radio or the heater,
insisting noise and warmth were unnecessary
when conversation, jackets and mittens would do.
Mom sat quietly staring out the window,
except when she announced a game:
I Spy…Animal, Vegetable, Mineral…
Make-a-Word from the last letter of the new word.
I was five, my sister three
with limited vocabulary.
Dad won most of the games
like a clever, smiling conjurer.
We entertained ourselves with coloring books
and stuffed animals acting out fantasies,
oblivious to speed
or the forces of a sudden stop.