Driving Home
from Knoebels Amusement Park
All day my five year old son has lived
through amusement park rides of make-believe
danger and now, in the real world of Route 80,
he sleeps in the back strapped in his booster seat
as traffic whizzes past. He is clutching
his giant souvenir pencil so large and thick
he could write his whole life story with it
and it's his life I think about as I maneuver
our car up and down the Pennsylvania mountain
highway where almost no one is obeying the law.
This is his world beyond rides he rode today
screaming with laughter, this is reality after
crashing bumper cars and the "Suicide
Water Slide." And I am seized with true fear
when that driver with one hand on a cell phone
swerves into my lane but my son sleeps on
holding his pencil like a scepter, maybe dreaming
of his hilarious terror aboard the "Cyclone"
and the "Anaconda" roller coaster where fright
is what you pay for and safety is assured.
When a woman speeds past applying lip stick
I grip the wheel tighter knowing I drive
with Liam's life in my hands here on Route 80
where no one cares for him as much as I do
and I am stiff with his absolute faith
that lets him doze even now as a tractor trailer,
30 miles over the speed limit, catches up
to our bumper and high beams us out of its way.
As I change lanes and it barges past like a bully,
I shudder to think the unthinkable for my son
who giggled through the "Chamber of Death"
fun house, who now sleeps trusting me
to steer clear of every horror around him.
Turning 17 in the Summer of '66
I remember Times Square record shops playing
"Pretty Woman."
I remember working at a bakery and falling in love
with Mary Jane who broke my heart each morning
bragging about her boyfriend.
I remember the NJ Turnpike across from our house,
the hum of six lanes of traffic at night through my
bedroom windows.
I remember missing Mel Allen, fired from the
Yankee microphone.
I remember waiting weeks to see Tim Hardin in
Greenwich Village only to watch him come on stage high
and forget his own words to "If I Were a Carpenter."
I remember seeing Man of La Mancha and crying
at the end when Quixote and Sancho climbed the staircase
as the cast sang "The Impossible Dream."
I remember missing my father, dead three years,
and wishing he could be the one to teach me to drive.
I remember the loneliness of bus rides home from New York
and the friendly kitchen light my mother left on for me.
I remember the terror of Richard Speck and his one-by-one
murders of eight Chicago nurses.
I remember writing to Mr. Bailey, the English teacher
I worshipped, and loving his letters back urging me
to read more Tennessee Williams.
I remember smoking my first cigarette in Times Square
and exhaling along with the guy in the Camel's sign.
I remember memorizing all the verses of Dylan's "Like a
Rolling Stone" then whisper singing them to myself
on the bus rides home.
I remember the Beach Boys' "Surfer Girl" and picturing
Mary Jane and me riding a wave although
I couldn't even swim.
I remember my mother sitting on our porch at night
with a slab of cheddar cheese and a glass of iced tea
swaying next to my father's empty chair.
I remember getting for my 17th birthday the album,
Robert Goulet on Broadway, and deciding "Where
Is Love?" from Oliver was the saddest song I'd ever heard.
I remember how a neighbor would get drunk then stagger
to our porch to tell us again how much he missed my father.
I remember lying about my age to get into the film,
Hurry Sundown, to watch Michael Caine unbutton
Jane Fonda's blouse.
I remember wanting to do the same to Mary Jane.
I remember how quiet our house became
after my brother married.
I remember walking my home town streets alone on
Saturday nights with theater songs in my head.
I remember reading Saul Bellow's Herzog and devouring
the pages with love scenes then not being able to look
Mary Jane in the eye when we stuffed the jelly doughnuts.
I remember Mr. Bailey's letter telling me he was moving
to another school.
I remember Mary Jane bringing her boyfriend in the back
to meet me and how I felt like a mouse next to
his football physique.
I remember standing on the turnpike overpass at night
singing "Where Is Love" as loud as I could and believing
that no one in the world could hear me.
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