He used to let me steer,
Every morning before he left for work the engine
would roar from the garage,
I sat in his lap as we navigated the neighborhood
The smell of the Italian leather and dirty gasoline.
When we pulled back into the garage my heart would sink.
He would kiss me goodbye and drive away.
This time I wasn’t steering.
By Sarah Harkness
Written during Art-i-Fax event on Colfax, July 2016