The Tiny White Two-Door

The dawn breaks damply, in the wooded hush, our house upon the hill, a morning rush. We rise for worship, a familiar call, squeezed in the tiny white two-door, meant for small. The friend's old car, a slightly aged shell, with vinyl seats and a distinct, faint smell. The engine humming before the drive began, my father's friend, the driver, led the clan.
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In the backseat, brother, I, and the daughter too, a woven tangle, three pressed into two. We feel the tight turns, the rumble of the road, a silent sharing of that close-packed load. We watched the trees fly past the window glass, as we left the quiet of the urban pass.
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The service done, the city's streets we find,
To load our bounty, or the meal we designed. We'd pack the sandwiches we made at home with care, or stop for market chicken, hot taters to share. Then to the park, the river's flow and sound, the perfect spot where food and fun were found.
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In the backseat, brother, I, and the daughter too, a woven tangle, three pressed into two. We feel the tight turns, the rumble of the road, a silent sharing of that close-packed load. We watched the trees fly past the window glass, as we left the quiet of the urban pass.
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Our weekly journey's end, a sweet reprieve,
The crowded car ride, a moment we could achieve.

The crowded car ride...

Folk and Americana