MUSED Literary Magazine.
Poetry

CAR

Judith Steele

was the second word my son said,
as he pushed the Matchbox cars back and forth
on the tray of his high chair, vroomvroomvroom

Now, in his shed are cars and motorbikes,
trophies and tools, and the smell of grease
I grew up with. He takes me for a ride on the golf-buggy
to turn the water on; down the dirt road of the hill,
jolt jump sway, hold on to the bar, even more fun
to do it again in the company of an excited dog.
Two laps of the hill, while he tells me of the laps
he did during the Targa Tasmania car-race.

What is better for a mother than to be with a son
who’s doing something that makes him grin?
Vroom Vroom.