Seven Years

My dad joked that he’d like to come back to earth as a toll booth because “people would throw money at me all day.” Later this week we’ll reach seven years since he died. Here’s my way of remembering him.

***

MY FATHER IS A TOLL BOOTH

On a high-octane
interstate exchange
my father is a toll booth
living out his dream

Change comes steady
the stop-n-go of anxious taillights
endless fenders
compact cars and heavy loads

His mouth’s a chute
brain an agile motherboard
one long arm to keep
the world at bay

Some dads turn to tadpoles
others moss or stone
a few shine as sunbeams
or grow mighty as a rose

Concrete and flashing lights
before the final exit
my father is a toll booth
living out his dream

c b snoad
5-20-13

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1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “Seven Years

  1. Tom Trebswether

    That is good. I miss him too.

    Like

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