Something about opera…

Firestone Opera on a Saturday

I like to look over the steering wheel,
neck stretched out like a turtle exploring,
a child reaching with eyes to see ahead,
as my Dad’s strong, aged hands grip
our trajectory lightly even on the highway
while the world flies past in blurs and
he taps his fingertips on the wood and
leather of the wheel in time with the
Firestone Opera he listens to every
Saturday afternoon as we drive to the
bowling alley; everyone else wants to
drive someday, control their own
destiny or at least the radio station,
taking new roads, risking it all on
the hope of getting lost or just making
one’s own way in the romance of
adventure, but I still want to sit in the
backseat craning my neck over Dad’s
shoulder peering ahead, knowing where
we’re going but still curious as if
discovering the new world again
and hoping the fat lady never sings.