Fortunate Sons

My brother on Log Plain Road

with Creedence on the stereo,

too close to the guardrail 

in that Taurus he’d later explode.

He’s breaking the limit

on a fifth-gear coast,

gliding home from a mile away

without the brakes,

38 in a 15,

Down on the Corner, Out in the street

driving us hard

on a cricket-danger night,

bring a nickel, tap your feet.

He’s seventeen with paint stains

going on thirty,

and I’m along in the passenger seat,

banging my knees

to the Fogerty beat,

grass-stained eleven

going on seventeen.

Some folks are born

made to wave the flag

he takes a right

and I’m pulled his way,

that look-ma-no-hands style of his

making me  close my eyes,

the wind from the broken power window

forcing them open again.

We lean hard

into the downslope,

going twenty now,

home-free (whatever that means),

slow-thrusting over

the rhododendron root

before the basketball hoop

while the stereo skips—

it ain’t me, it ain’t me, it ain’t me,

it ain’t me, it ain’t me,

it ain’t me—feeling

all grown up

as we end it all

on a perfect

key-turn drum flourish,

wailing a little extra

mouth guitar,

unmufflered as we are.

David Wanczyk lives with his wife Megan in Athens, Ohio where he is a teacher of English and a maker of chili.  He is also a member of the band DW and the In-laws and the co-editor of Quarter After Eight magazine.  His writing can be found at davidwanczyk.blogspot.com.