Hidden Microphone

Three generations ride in the car
A long absent Russian
Voice deep from cigarettes, frozen, ironic
Knowing, but forgetting
Herded by his angelic wife
Gentle, small, kept, kind as the sun
Both of them discussing the rainstorm
Getting lost
And not risking a glance at show tickets, lest they get wet
With them, cajoling, their oldest son
Ever single, hat maker, piano man
Pushing their voices toward a hidden microphone
Ready with questions to capture answers
Unaware his will be as cherished
We listen to them through bands time
Years brought forth
The last of the clan contemplative
As ready as he will ever be
Focusing on sound quality rather than spirit
Lonely, generous, loving
Wallet proudly in front pocket
Happy with leftovers for tomorrow's dinner
I drive them over worked roads
Aware of the moment's significance
Basking in its myth
Joining them, slowly
Marching shoulder to shoulder into time

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