Driven

Driven

The moon shadows the sleek BMW
that tears apart the shimmering night.
At the wheel, my granddad tells me
how he visited my father
in the fatherland
(a complete pariah, I might add).
He asks him
if he would kindly
buy the son he hasn’t seen
in lengthening years
a jet-black car,
a trophy to reward the toil
of cultivating the destiny that lies ahead.
Of course,
I can picture the reaction:

my father flushes red
with a muddying laughter
that seethes: “Doubtless,
his dreams will sink into the bog
of gormlessness.”
(In real life, he’d be far too busy
arranging the next banquet of girls
for his nephew to consume
to even care.)
But I dream

of dashing my father’s doubts
against the perfect vehicle
for my contempt:
its diamond-like wheels
would drive his mirth into the mud
and smear it all over
his reddening face.

The car disappears
in a flash of pitch black laughter
and tears down yellow-streaked tarmac
past an expanse of flickering memories,
towards the sign
that proudly announces:
”You are entering your Destination.

No speed limit.”