"SPARK PLUG HILL"

"Spark Plug Hill"

In a world where no one seems to care,
traffic jams, and cold stares,
my mind drifts back to a happier time when
everything seemed magical and
everything rhymed.
It was one cool night, one September,
hearing the thumping and popping of my dad's
old mustang motorcycle.I watched with wide eyes
as the swirls of red and blue formed and dissapeared on the hot tailpipe. I felt the rush of adrenaline as my dad sat me on the gas tank in front of him and told me to grip the vibrating handlebars. I watched the headlight bounce on the unfolding back country roads. Tiny bugs hit my face as we rode on through the cool dark night making our way to grandad's place.
I remember the gravel crunching in the driveway and the dogs spinning and barking excitedly.
Grandma hugged me like only a grandma can do.
We drank rusty well water from old mason jars. There was the smell of pipe tobacco and dirt and oil and watermelon.The giant toads hopped about on the porch eating bugs,there was laughter and lots of talk, working on the motorcycle and then, finally it was time to go.
We made our way up a prairie hill and the mustang motorcycle suddenly popped and died. We sat there a moment in the dark, alone, except for about a billion stars. Dad said that the spark plug had blown out somewhere beside the road and so for the next hour we crawled about on our hands and knees, feeling for the spark plug among sticks stones and leaves.
Eventually dad found it, laughed and said "let's call this place spark plug hill"
It would never get any better than this, that was real...one cool night, one september,
me and my dad on spark plug hill.