Poem of the Week 9/26/17
Della Rowland
Riding With Will
In a fever,
we cram into Will’s little red car —
him, Martha, and me in the front seat,
Sarah and two others in the back —
our squeezed-in elbows poking out the windows,
bound for a cowboy store where he’s sure
we’ll buy a hat, maybe boots.
Will pops the clutch,
leaving babies and children behind, playing
in the yard, all over the yard,
patting soft dirt into piles,
making perfect sentences as only children can,
scooped up by grandmas and uncles and who-all else
when we lurch off fervently,
bucking down the driveway
toward our hilarious destination only Will knows where
while the radio blares “Listen To The Mockingbird”
and the wind rolls through the rolled-down windows
and our waving hair,
and Will hunches back and forth over the tiny steering wheel
whooping and swerving down field-flanked roads,
beating the big trucks to the next intersection
every time.
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