By William Miller
In a green, humpbacked late 50’s car,
we were always driving but never seemed
to get anywhere. My dad smoked
like most people breathed, never let
a Chesterfield burn out before he lit
the next one.
My mother smelled of too much perfume
that mingled with the smoke, our car
a gas chamber in perpetual motion.
The radio was on but only played
country or gospel, a preacher’s angry
hillbilly voice. The back window had
a shelf so deep I fell asleep there,
woke and rolled to the floorboards
if my dad suddenly braked.
To fall asleep was worth the price,
even the tooth I chipped once
just to be somewhere else.
My parents hated each other,
hated me, the burden of dragging
a child place to place. But that car
was home, or all I remember of it,
the future in the rear-view mirror,
the false hope of an exit sign.
William Miller’s ninth collection of poetry, Under Cheaha, was published by Shanti Arts Press in 2025. His poems have appeared in The Penn Review, The Southern Review, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner and West Branch. He lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.