Poetry Month

Riding Shotgun

For Morris & Mary Carroll, my grandparents

You riding shotgun, grandma said
my face glazed over with ignorance
in all my 12 years I had never heard such a thing
riding shotgun? I repeated seeking an explanation
all I knew was that I was sitting next to grandpa in the front seat
close enough to smell his hi-karate after-shave &
trace the veins in his hands as they knitted like winding creeks
around his slender fists & unfurled as long rivers up his arms
the front seat with grandpa, a rare allowance for a child born
in a time when a lack of reverence for any adult
could find your behind burning from an adroit switching

in the backseat my jealous brothers & sisters rolled their eyes
snaking their tongues furiously out of their mouths to mock me

grandma broke the term down—riding shotgun
there was something john wayne-ish about it
something my cowboy-&-indian-playing ass could dig
the image was phat,
I imagined myself, Nat Love of the projects
afro peeking out from the brim of my Stetson
steel-faced, eagle-eyed brother, winchester
between my legs, scouring the horizon for
bandits & navajo

I wish I could have seen the cancer coming that took grandma
or the alcoholism that would steal my father’s eyes from me
but my job was simple, to make sure the coast was free
of obstruction for grandpa’s bifocal maneuverings as
we headed to our ancestral grounds in upper marlboro

what ya see boy, asked grandpa intermittently
even when it was obvious he needed no help
my eyes spinning like the pontiac’s hubcaps, never leaving
the road
I answered simply
its all clear over here grandpa
& it was as far as I could see.

Kenneth Carroll

Seems to be family week this week.