By Rodney Jones
I was four,
playing on the front porch.
The mimosa was in bloom.
Eisenhower was in the White House.
Usually when I played, I became a car,
the noises of the engine,
the clutch, and the tires
scorching around corners.
Or my body was a car—my mind drove.
Twilight, a little before supper.
My father, just home from work,
was talking with a neighbor—
a bachelor cousin,
a farmer and minister.