C. Allen Rearick mackin' downtown KC. Photo by MDG

SUNDAY AFTERNOON IN A MCDONALD’S PARKING LOT

Sunday afternoon,
my father and I sit inside
his blue S-10 pick-up truck
idled in the middle
of a Mcdonald’s parking lot.

They sky, overcast and rainy,
reminds me of his hair,
black with wispy strands of grey.
We swallow slippery bites
of double cheeseburgers,
chew french fries, and suck
down medium cokes.

We wait for the rain to stop
to fix my girlfriend’s car,
broken down in the parking lot
adjacent to us. Apparently
the alternator had run its course,
a thing my hands know
nothing about. This makes
me feel ashamed, and I wonder
why each finger, when pressed
into a fist, is wholly unable
to hold and feel my father’s love
for all things mechanical.

I turn instead my attention on
the birds outside, flitting
and hurrying in their normal,
busy manner. They pluck
the wet blacktop for morsels
of food fallen from our lips.

My father, whose voice
could out rush the wind,
down pours words and sentences
faster than he can ratchet
the food down his throat.

As usual, I sit here and say nothing,
just listen to him talk.
My silence a small rock pelted
by a heavy sand storm,
my mind too focused on
the birds as I think about how
much I hate them for their ability
to fly away from my father’s
mouth and my dumb, uneasy silence.

I just wanted to go home,
but the echo of his voice
continued to ramble, dawdling
down with the rain drops,
the pauses in his breath beating
harder and harder against
the wet concrete, where, eddying
in a puddle, my reflection had
turned into a mosaic of confusion.
Something of a counterfeit Picasso
painted by rain and tar,
as the birds’ heads teased,
bobbing as if laughing, their wings
lifting into flight to places
where I’d rather

be.

© 2008 C. Allen Rearick/Cleavland

Next Poem»