All the mothers did it.
Every morning in the car
husbands and wives driving
to the train station, 6:17 a.m.
Fords and Chevys lining up
around the U-shaped curve
husbands stepping out of
cars and onto double-decker
train, Tribune news in hand,
chugging off to work each day.
All the mothers did it.
Each evening children rode
along to pick up dad, cars
lining on the horseshoe, heat on
or window down, waiting for the
click and clack of super-fast
5:55p.m. arriving home for
meatloaf on the stove.
All the mothers did it, but
here’s the twist: on the route
each morning, husbands
drove, kissed their wives and
waved goodbye, as wives slid
onto driver’s side, easy on
those old bench seats, curlers
still in hair, to coffee perking
in its pot.
All the mothers drove from
home to meet the Burlington,
child leaning over rear plastic
seat, no belts invented yet.
Dad waved hello and quickly
strode to driver’s side of car,
while mother – yes you
guessed it – slid onto passenger
seat so dad could drive the
two miles home.
Growing up in a Chicago suburb, Joanne McNeil Hayes wrote poems about midwestern life before moving to Vermont. Her poems are published in ENOUGH, Crosswinds, and Valley and Beyond. She has two collections: We begin in fragrant fields and Riding Out the Risk: Poet and Painter in Conversation.