• sanchopanzalit

Ride Home

Aaron Caycedo-Kimura

Dad blows cigarette smoke

out the station wagon window.

It swirls back in, mixing

with the stink of seawater, perch,

and flounder. On a back road

home from Bodega Bay,

a morning of fishing off the jetty,

we drive with nothing much to say.

The vinyl seat hot under my thighs,

feet barely touching the floor,

the twisty road making me carsick.

He turns on the radio,

punches a buck-toothed button

for his favorite oldies station.

He fiddles with the knob

but can’t get rid of the static

over Lena Horne. At Freestone

General Store, he buys two bottles

of Sprite. The bubbles scratch my throat,

but the cold sips of lemon-lime

give us something to talk about.

46 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Anthony Paticchio Worn knowledge rests in a cleft in the brow, beats time against the heart’s intent, seeks the vein that empties out its crown, stills its hard desire for permanence. Once found, let

Jason Vasser-Elong Red brick Old homes, storefronts shine like red faces greeting an autumn sun horse drawn memories that are not mine to have, cobble stoned past. The marvel that was the Eads looming

Rose Malone The foxes are taking over, coming in from the wild ditches and the clinging smell of alleyways. Their slender, velvet feet leave imprints on domesticated grass. Their thin, insolent faces