Joyride

Two aides get Dad in the car

on the second try.

He meddles with his seat belt,

pats the dash, rubs his hands

as if putting on lotion.

The old farms excite him,

so I drive out past

dazed herds of condos

to where big tractors

are spreading manure,

moving hay.

Before his eyes drift

cows hock-deep in mud,

a man scraping a house,

all of it passing

at thirty miles an hour,

alpacas and merino sheep

prized for their wool,

ruined silo,

bird dog crossing the road,

woman looking up

from planting a tree.

I say I once drove past

a field of camels in Vermont.

He starts to tell a similar story

but none comes to mind.

When we were kids he'd fishtail

up the twisty road to East Rock Park,

throwing gravel, making crash sounds,

heading straight for the tree.

At the top: a monument

to war-dead disgraced by graffiti.

At night, teenagers parked

their cars by the stone tower

(he never said why).

Someone had drawn a penis

on the plaque of names,

the war-dead who lay

inside the monument,

in their grave.