April 8, 2021
I love to drive a manual transmission,
Shifting the gears and racing along the road.
It’s like being on a tactical mission,
Driving in Algiers and breaking all the codes.
I hand write my letters with a fountain pen,
And my wristwatch is a silver chronograph.
Anachronistic gadgets are fairly zen,
My knife, my torch, and leather wallet for cash.
Why a leaky pen and an analog watch?
Why drive an automobile with a stick shift?
Why not just a phone and its digital clock?
It’s just nostalgia, before this recent rift.
I remember sitting on my father’s knee,
As he wrote his papers to do his studies.
He would look at his watch and and when he was free,
And put down the fountain pen to be buddies.
I was the least accomplished of three children,
Not valedictorian or teacher’s pet.
The middle child, sometimes feeling the villain,
Overly sensitive, easily upset.
Mother would go to lengths to take care of me,
I don’t care if that makes me a mama’s boy.
Looking back I needed attention you see,
Whether it be kind words or a little toy.
Successful people were loved by their parents,
Attention from parents will give confidence.
I was cared for, that is fairly apparent,
Grateful for their love, it made all the difference.
I drive a stick and write with a fancy pen.
The watch I wear is pretty superfluous.
But I love my kids the way I was loved then,
And where I get that is pretty obvious.