Akron at Night

A few months after dad left,

the divorce still pending, my mother

drives home on an unspectacular

Cleveland night, looks at me

and says, Let’s drive to Akron. We’re

cuddled in her tiny black Chevy Spectrum,

a stick she taught herself to drive

because it was the cheapest on the lot.  

Prince’s Batman soundtrack plays

in the cassette player. Akron.

Neither of us had ever been there.

It was just the place you drove past to get

home. Prince croons Vicki Waiting. 

We sing along to the opening night, probing

the wound of the road, hugging tight to highway 77.

When we reach Akron, its lit spires bathe us

in a strange orange glow. The bricked sidewalks

spill out in quiet perfection. Our satisfaction

surrounds us, hanging thick in the closeness of the car.

The cassette clicks, flips, and side B begins.