My dad joked that he’d like to come back to earth as a toll booth because “people would throw money at me all day.” Later this week we’ll reach seven years since he died. Here’s my way of remembering him.
***
MY FATHER IS A TOLL BOOTH
On a high-octane
interstate exchange
my father is a toll booth
living out his dream
Change comes steady
the stop-n-go of anxious taillights
endless fenders
compact cars and heavy loads
His mouth’s a chute
brain an agile motherboard
one long arm to keep
the world at bay
Some dads turn to tadpoles
others moss or stone
a few shine as sunbeams
or grow mighty as a rose
Concrete and flashing lights
before the final exit
my father is a toll booth
living out his dream
c b snoad
5-20-13
