Jason Johnson Poet Narrative

Ideology

We drove home on that Sunday. The summer I was twelve
it was hot, windows down
instructing me about freedom,
liberties, rights, never considered self. 
A lager fixed firmly between your legs
as you drummed the steering wheel
in unison to oldies from the radio.
It was a 66' Ford pickup, green with the smell
of pride that hung from the rear view
swinging to the road. I remember 
it was like a personality that was assigned 
to you, which is not yours at all.

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Carolyn Devonshire September 29, 2009 at 6:08 AM What a wonderful memory to have, Jason! When I was young, our family took many car trips and you brought back the togetherness we shared in this great write! Love, Carolyn

Patti Masterman August 3, 2009 at 9:12 PM This is really powerful. You did a great job of painting this portrait. I could feel myself agreeing with your viewpoint that it was like putting on a suit of clothes (the music..the car..etc)

Sara Kendrick August 2, 2009 at 2:21 PM Very descriptive. I can feel the heat and hear the talk. Sara

Christopher Higgins August 2, 2009 at 1:32 PM Brilliant write my friend..."it was like a personality that was assigned to you"..this line speaks loudly...good writing.