two thousand and seven

on a cold winter afternoon

tired from work, the world blue

and lavender,

and lonely—

i remember those sun-baked days

where the sky was so pale blue

and the car so lazy and warm—

college radio drifting out the windows

riding shotgun with daddy

his hair so black and pulled into a pony

with his red beard

tapping his fingers on the wheel

of an old toyota sienna;

we’re going to the dump

maybe it was the first time i heard

the black parade,

a sort of rock and roll magic sparkling

into my brains.

i ask daddy to turn it up and we cross

the bridge—

that valley of water and little islands of

dried yellow grass,

the air is so dry and the wind whips at

my bleached hair and squinted

little hooded green eyes.

me and daddy.

i'll never be that child

again.

two-thousand and seven

nine years old.

i miss you.