When the World Learned to Drive

Hello, and Happy Poetry Friday! Be sure to visit Katya at Write. Sketch. Repeat. for Roundup. This is my last post before my WILD 10 Year Blogiversary Celebration, coming Monday, November 9! Actually, the link will go live Sunday evening. Along with all the WILD links, I'll be sharing 14 Things I've Learned from 10 Years of Blogging. I'm excited!!!

Today I have for you an original poem. Last month I attended My Favorite Poem, a community poetry reading here in Birmingham in which folks share their favorite poem and why it's important to their lives. One high school student shared "When the World Was Ten Years Old He Fell Deep in Love with Egypt" by Patricia Lockwood -- and I fell in love with using the world as a way to write a poem. The very next day I wrote this poem about our 15 year old son who is the world and our youngest son and who has already passed his driving test and is waiting for The Day to arrive when he can officially drive off into the sunset... without his mother beside him.

When the World Learned to Drive (for Eric)

- after Patricia Lockwood

When the world learned to drive

he started on back roads, trim

neighborhood streets, his eyes

watchful for trash cans and cats.

At first his foot came down hard,

his hands slick against the wheel,

right turn right turn right turn

until he was thank God, back home.

When the world learned to drive,

he grinned at stop signs,

their bold-print and eager faces

familiar as his reflection,

and equally as maddening –

until he learned the feather-art

of rubber sole easy-easy

against rubber pedal.

When the world learned to drive

he couldn't wait to take the interstate.

He dreamed of long ramps

and fast, smooth mergings,

was unruffled by the whoosh

of semi trucks or the red Mustang

rushing his back bumper.

The world simply thumbed the wheel

and adjusted his rearview mirror.

And then there was no stopping him:

he craved city traffic, stop-and-go,

cloverleafs and flyovers.

His faith steamed like asphalt

after a summer shower, he studied

maps for sinkholes and mountains,

strapped himself in and didn't look back.

Not soon enough he learned

to navigate Highway 280,

it's ant-lines and zipper lines and no lines

a language he could understand:

hip-hop lyrics, piano, drumbeat –

with a little reggae thrown in.

To celebrate, the world bought

four pair of sunglasses,

kept both hands on the wheel.

Didn't text while driving, or eat,

or cry, though sometimes the sunset

was so beautiful he had to clear his throat.

The world was a good listener,

had always been a good listener.

He believed each yellow light

was a message from God –

sometimes, Hold On, sometimes, Let Go.

He knew and his mother knew

and every song he would ever write knew

that there was a road

somewhere with his name on it,

and if there wasn't, the world would build it.

- Irene Latham