In The Backseat, Heading Home After A Long Semester Poem by Les Wordsmore

Dusk comes earlier these days.
By neighboring headlights and the end
of our joint, I reflect on my hair
in the window, sprouting out my wool cap.
My father and his use the same wig guy.
I spilled a beer on my lap an hour
ago. I'll change when I'm home.

My blonde-haired friend's blonde sister
swerves his used beamer into the middle lane
while she picks another bad song.
The music is too loud for me to speak,
but the muffled conversation is of
their Dad's old silver VW Bug, round
and shiny like his shaved head.

I'm cramped in the back, a damp
free rider - I can't handle
manual transmission. Or Lady Gaga.
My dad's BMW is automatic.
I drove my car for the final time
before I left, synthetic oil corroded
the engine some time after my last haircut.

My next might be tomorrow
After a few shakes of my mom's head.
My dad will say I must be smoking again.
Or possibly, when Brady's winning on Sunday
I'll just hear of his wild-haired, carefree
college days. Boston in the seventies,
When the drinking age was eighteen
And they still made good music.