Every third car in the car lot shines silver-with-roof-rack.
You press your goose caller, but nothing honks back.
It could be broken, or the car could be on 6. Wait here,
you tell him, his tick-thud echoing after
your every wrong turn. You ran two stops
to make his appointment, then you abandoned ship
willy-nilly, the waves licking, the waves
of concrete rising as the elevator misbehaved.
Every pew is filled on 6, all is silence.
No attendant, with godlike countenance,
just a family plodding with such purpose toward you,
asmirk at your obvious idiocy. You
go back for the boy, but it's the wrong bank.
Did he wander out or go game-deaf? Thank
god, on 9 the key fits, 9 is the 6, comics face down
in the back seat. You cruise 3 for him, done
with panic, your head thrust so far out of the car you almost hit
honks, and you graze a post. You sit
in park, you pen the stall number on your palm, you call and call:
Only columns answer. He's at the exit where you look last, al-
most crying, most un-dad-like, slipping, with blinks,
the ticket into the quick mouth for its automatic thanks.
TODAY IN SLATE
The Irritating Confidante
John Dickerson on Ben Bradlee’s fascinating relationship with John F. Kennedy.
My Father Invented Social Networking at a Girls’ Reform School in the 1930s
Renée Zellweger’s New Face Is Too Real
Sleater-Kinney Was Once America’s Best Rock Band
Can it be again?
The All The President’s Men Scene That Captured Ben Bradlee
Is It Better to Be a Hero Like Batman?
Or an altruist like Bruce Wayne?
Driving in Circles
The autonomous Google car may never actually happen.