Driving through a neighborhood too expensive for us in light traffic.
It’s where he grew up, and later returned as a college graduate.
The sunlight, cloying and insistent in the October afternoon,
Is absorbed by his work-worn hands on the steering wheel
Strong,
Firm,
With veins that bulge like the roots of a tree.
So unlike my own,
A watery creation
That drops everything
Carelessly tossed over.
He cranes his neck out the open window,
Squints in spite of his transition lenses.
He spots a neighborhood haunt.
A nondescript greasy spoon diner
With young clientele
Lounging on the sidewalk.
“I can’t believe they’re remodeling Renner’s,”
He exclaims
To no one in particular.
I don’t ask who they are.
I allow him to traverse this well-worn path
Of a simpler time
But offer my hand
To guide him over the potholes.