In the back seat.
My childhood could be mapped from
Volkswagen swap meet to Volkswagen swap meet,
From Rusty red gold bumpers to the thick suffocating delicious toxic smell of gasoline.
My childhood could be mapped out like car parts on blue tarps with black price tags written onto the surface.
It could be shown in the weathered cracked hands of the men who spend their lives under cars.
My childhood is in parking lots, fairgrounds and colleges.
My childhood could be counted in how many broken fan belts we’ve had to replace.
It could felt on rough horsehair seats, or brown vinyl and no sound but the wind whipping though the cracks and seems on the ’62 bus.
My childhood could be mapped from memory to memory, from dust to polish.
My childhood could be shown on all the hands I have shook and smiles I’ve formed.
My childhood is made of
love, and commitment,
hobbies and jobs.
My child hood is mine.
Its how I’ve grown up.