Late November

Late November

Kyle Walton

Late-November, windows down, 
Parkway lights dashing, caddy cornered to the void 
At bay by these windows, older make and model than myself but still holding.
Drumming mechanicals reverberate through the cloth seating 
like the rhythmic cacophony of cultists.

There are no variables here, the day was won, 
the castle of innocent constants stands like a triumphant middle finger 
in the face of forked tongued truth-sayers and Santa Claus propagandists.

The sun will rise and fall just the same as today and yesterday, 
the way time has always worked.
The radio, that ol’ dryer sheet, performs a medley for passengers,
All is altruistic in this innocent world.

I pull my dad’s work jacket over mon coeur and position myself in the most comfortable spot in the backseat, safety standards be damned. 

It smells like dirt, powertools, 
and home. Security, warmth and safety fill 
the space between the caked work-site stains and worn tan fabric.

He is holding me even if he is in the seat in front, driving.
A man towing a heart on his sleeve, the envious load of Atlas.
Heavy is the head that wears down his own self to help others.
Kintsukuroi poster-child if he would let others help.
A circumstantial hero’s complex was bestowed on him, mine will be hereditary.
I think experts now call it anxiety.

He is my Orpheus, leading me on the highway homebound
He is my Prometheus, lighting the way
He is not perfect but his inked arms have always held me tight
He gave me the moral compass that points true and that’s more than he had 
He now waits for me, awaiting what I do with existence.