I’m driving the MassPike west
just before sunset, blacktop cleared
of snow, the only car for miles
after a late April storm. The distant
silhouettes of bare trees line up
along the Berkshire hills like the stubble
of my three-day beard, and wild clouds
spin arcs of steel-bar-blue, Creedence
on the radio singing “Fortunate Son,”
me remembering my father
like I always do at dusk on the highway,
1954, riding shotgun in our new Olds-
mobile sedan on Route 1, traffic
streaming toward us from the glow
of New York City, my father warning
me that twilight and dawn are the most
dangerous times to drive. In a few days
I will listen for his voice again when
I turn around and drive east at sunrise,
rehearsing my testimony for the trial
of a drug dealer accused of murder.
“Crazy or sane?” they will ask me,
“Life in a hospital ward or slow death
in a prison yard?” The defendant’s father
will be speeding down the MassPike, too,
the sun’s glare filling our eyes with tears,
both of us driving blind.
