Flying by my son's old baseball fields
nascent thoughts sucked
through the sunroof
with the air conditioning,
a perfect memory resuscitated
of a strong seventh inning swing.
Boxing it like his golden
bubble wrapped trophies,
I'm driving faster than the pain.
Sixty second news flash:
eighty-seven degrees, slight wind
attack in Kabul kills ten
Spokane historic cemetery
coming around the next bend.
New deaths, old deaths, lost sons
pop my favorite CD mix in—
Alone, Pennies from Heaven and
Tom Petty's Running Down a Dream.
We're going wherever it leads.
In 2011, four years after my son joined the Air Force, I drove past a baseball field and a memory of a beautiful triple he hit his sophomore year popped into my head. Fifteen minutes later, I took my pocket notebook out of my purse and wrote the first draft of "Drive." (Yes, while I was driving.) This poem is dedicated to John, and all parents of children who served or are serving in the military.
Original Publisher: Camroc Press Review
Reprinted with permission in The Glass Sponge
Publisher: Finishing Line Press