Oil splotching my shirt
And confess I’ve ruined the old blue truck
When all I tried for was fixing it
She coldly calculates me
And I wish she’d just yell
Things are much easier when angry
Instead of cold and disappointed
I stare at the rug
And then my father walks in
“The car is fine, has been all along.”
What? I think. But I just…
“We don’t want you to be fixing cars yourself
We messed with you, son.”
I sigh to myself
Then laugh a bit
Parents.