DADDY'S GUITAR
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/290/1/DADDYS-GUITAR/Page1.html
Dianna L. Zimmerman
Dianna L. Zimmerman is a creative writing graduate student at the University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. She works as an on-line mentor/editor for other writers through the University of New Mexico community outreach program, The Writers' Inn, and is the happy mother of a twin girl and boy! By Dianna L. Zimmerman
Published on 07/16/2004
I take Central Avenue instead of the highway knowing exactly
why: generic aerodynamic bodies and stomp on the brake, cut-throat
drivers fill up that interstate. Central Avenue has cruisers, proud of
their souped-up, custom-painted carros that purr like a cat, wheels
that stick out from the frame and make a giant floating skateboard.
I take Central Avenue instead of the highway knowing exactly why: generic aerodynamic bodies and stomp on the brake, cut-throat drivers fill up that interstate. Central Avenue has cruisers, proud of their souped-up, custom-painted carros that purr like a cat, wheels that stick out from the frame and make a giant floating skateboard.
The street shivers in the heat-light like the hooker on the sidewalk's sequin. I note that tube tops are back for the rent-set. This August-in-May day has sweet air and a good song on the radio, delivered flawlessly. I miss static: the crackling hum of an album on the turntable.
I've heard it said you long for what you hear as a child.
I make my way down Central to the Frontier Diner where we meet. A man approaches and hands us a sign language card. He wants money, cash or coin, anything rolling around in a bulky purse.
At home, the children call for Daddy's guitar, a smooth-throated companion and the day squeals to conclusion. This is where you tack on an ending.
Copyright © Dianna L. Zimmerman, 2004. All Rights Reserved.
The street shivers in the heat-light like the hooker on the sidewalk's sequin. I note that tube tops are back for the rent-set. This August-in-May day has sweet air and a good song on the radio, delivered flawlessly. I miss static: the crackling hum of an album on the turntable.
I've heard it said you long for what you hear as a child.
I make my way down Central to the Frontier Diner where we meet. A man approaches and hands us a sign language card. He wants money, cash or coin, anything rolling around in a bulky purse.
At home, the children call for Daddy's guitar, a smooth-throated companion and the day squeals to conclusion. This is where you tack on an ending.
Copyright © Dianna L. Zimmerman, 2004. All Rights Reserved.