The Perils
of Rabbit Riding
Unfamiliar
as I was
With
Volkswagen models and their names,
I
didn’t know why we called it Rabbit,
For
it had no ears that I could see
And
it never once led us to Wonderland.
It
was a vehicle well-suited for sweat –
December
heaters seared small fingers
And
none but the bold and foolhardy
Dared
to approach the sun-scorched seats of summer
With
only shorts for protection.
When
the five of us traversed together,
The
seven-seater van was the carriage of preference.
The
Rabbit, understand,
Was
one seatbelt shy of a family,
But
the gravel-road journey to church
Was
deemed “close enough.”
I
couldn’t say why the perilous middle seat
Was
forever marked for the middle child,
But
there I would sit,
A
brother at either elbow
And
my toes perched stiffly
On
the center console.
During
these one-mile daredevil ventures,
I
wore a human safety belt
Fashioned
of my brothers’ clasped hands
As
they crossed their arms over my waist.
