napowrimo #14: road trip

stuck at a toll booth crossing the 

Golden Gate Bridge

grandpa rolled down the glass

on the Mercury and

bumped the windowlock with his elbow

and the rain and cold poured 

over the protection of his arm 

draping skin over bone barely covered in flesh.

the car crammed with the proof of his patriarchy

suddenly became loud with complaints

of the biting damp and

cold air sweeping of the january bay.

confused, he can't figure out the buttons

on the control panel and

drives ten under, swerving against

the chaotic cacophony 

unsure what is in his ears and what is in his mind.

that is the first moment,

eight years old, 

I understood getting old 

means growing into alone.