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i have this story a memory i was a child, a baby really at the fabric's hem of consciousness and awareness life and memories of life i was three, maybe four my father the man with the dimples in his skin beer on his breath a glint in his gaze one eye had a birthmark on the iris like a punched out hole piece of paper took a shining to his ocular i remember we were flying the road signs were German and the streets, cobble i wore no seatbelt i wore no helmet we were on his motorcycle and we were flying i was three, maybe four my father, the drinker my father, the profane the loud talker so you'd recognize that he could always increase the volume he drove his baby girl around on his Harley in Heidelberg and dared anyone to say anything my mom got real good at biting her tongue i was a child i have this memory ✱✱✱  |
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