Daddy’s Girl, July 1983
Before the sun casts its shadowed arms, long
against summer sidewalks, you will have
forgotten me. An oversized suitcase filled
with high water corduroy hand me downs, threadbare T-shirts
and mementoes, hidden in a jacket lining from the last box
left of my mother will be my only comfort, once
you hand me a bag of regular M & M’s and change
from your twenty-dollar bill. Without a kiss or goodbye
you will turn and leave me, your 12 year old daughter, standing
alone to wait for my time to board. I will have watched your short legs in old
denim and the back of your balding mullet fade into the crowd. A plane
will have sped down one runway at John Wayne Airport
to the wind of this neglected cargo. And I will still
not be broken,
And you,
you will rush home on the 405 beating traffic
in your rebuilt Austin Healy, Bug Eyed Sprite convertible
Oldies will blast from transistor radio
transferred from floor to still indented passenger seat
at a red light on Harbor Blvd.
at the driver who cuts you off, tap your grease stained fingers
against the welded shut door in tune to the Temptations
singing “my girl, talking ‘bout my girl..” You will take the corner too fast
at Beach Blvd.
the sun casts its last shadowed arms, long
against the summer sidewalks, and you will have
forgotten me.
©
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