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Kevin Spenst

After learning “me” and “I”

but well before my father learns

a restraining order's

between him and our home,

we share some good times.

 

Remember the back of his bicycle.

 

I sit on a seat secured over the tire.

Our laughter lolls like exhaust

as we drive over bumps in the lawn,

dandelions losing their heads

between the tires and spokes.

 

Remember his Suzuki.

 

The Z holds pre-literate powers in its

70s font blazing like Evel Knievel

sideburns. Gear shift jerk. The smush

of my ear against black foam lining.

The outer shell of my white helmet

presses into his large back. Another

gear shift knock. Fraser Highway's

convenience store shacks blur by.

 

Until one intersection flips

onto its side and freezes as if caught

in our single headlight.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

My open mouth is the reply.

 

As a child I didn't know what drove him.

 

A complicated accident to report;

 

many words spinning out of reach. 

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