i rode shotgun in your
quaint little love parade,
past the jugglers and buglers
and men riding around in
tiny cars wearing funny hats.
i rode shotgun with the windows
down and my bare feet catching
snippets of sunlight in between
the dancing leaves overhead.
we were far behind the Grand Marshall
who led us through the maze of the
city. many times i thought the route
to be bizarre. when i’d have taken us
left, down Broad st., he took us right,
down Skid Row. when i wanted to
avoid the hills on the outskirts of town,
he drove us right up the face of them. still,
he is there, leading this parade, and i am
here, riding shotgun with you; my bare feet
catching all the contours of the wind.
when our path seems wrong, i hear the
band behind us and know that we are okay –
you and i and our little love parade.