My mother used to drive us around
In a big old seventies station wagon
painted in different colors.
My siblings and I would sit in the back,
we’d pretend it was a boat
and we’d sail with the big window down,
wishing we could brush our fingers along
or just dive right into the black water highway
that we glided on through.
But we knew we’d get left behind if we did that
And the rest of the modern white world
would not care to look back
for a foolish Indian child.