City
Driver
My father used to make himself parking spaces
by coming in at an angle
and bumping the cars in back by micro-decimals,
then doing the same to the cars in front,
and repeating the maneuver, over and over,
until maybe the third car ahead blocked a hydrant,
the fifth car in the rear blocked a driveway,
and the car that used to be
the last car on the block
was now the first car in the right turn lane,
but at least his car was legal—a procedure he swore
was in the New York City Drivers’
Manual,
which he took an oath on when he became a citizen
way back when I was born, and it was time for him to start
either to mind his manners
or be remembered for their absence
by those he wished had loved him.
