Chicago

My father’s heart is a little red car.
It speeds down the highway at 70, but
not any faster for fear of being pulled over.

The radio is blasting Chicago,
filling the car with memories of
boyhood rebellion and college parties.

He zips down life’s highway, never changing
lanes, never slowing down as if he wasn’t
really driving at all. Occasionally he’ll pass

someone slower than him; a minivan or
a Cadillac, being careful not to hit
oncoming traffic. The car will always be

bright red. I know the paint will never fade.
But he can’t see that because he’s driving
his little red car with the windows

up and all the doors locked singing to
himself, Does anybody really know what time
it is? Does anybody really care?