I got a Dodge Dart, like dad had, but I got it now,
and started acting like dad.
I cleared my throat a lot to announce I was here,
but secretly Oh my God I hope we don't die
like his father did in the crash before I was born.
The Dart was an impermeable boundary
between my soft sons and war,
love and hatred, sanity and schirrohis,
and we rode around the hot roads,
in June's lingering lime green trees.
They knew I was being dad, and it was fun for a while.
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