Read Poem: dad’s car, by Michael Russell

when i was a boy and evening rain would come,
i would venture outdoors, walk to the curbside
and open the door of my dad’s car.
once inside, i would lock the door, slide over
to the driver’s seat and sit, quiet and still.

there, in reinforced solitude, i could hear rain beating all around me, leaving little gem-drops
on the wind shield that glistened in the tawny
street light.

from behind the wheel my journey would begin:
up city streets and down gravelled country roads,
over creeks and under railways, and into years
yet to be.

past the edge of the world i would drive,
not knowing my destination ─ i only knew
that when i got there, i would know i had
arrived at the unknown place i belonged.

the rain would drum heavier, and crescendo
to a thunderous roll to welcome me home,
to follow with my eyes the erratic trails
left by raindrops gliding down the glass,
until the sky had dripped dry.

now, in my twilight fancies, i sit again
in dad’s car and await the rain.