I miss the way my dad would rest one wrist over the steering wheel when he drove
and tap the tops of his fingernails on the underside of the dash

The other hand would reach into his shirt pocket
first to shake out precisely one Lark from its red pack
without ever looking down
and park it between his lips
then reach for the ever-present shiny chrome Zippo
flipping it open with barely a flick of the wrist

A bright clank of metal as the lid escaped its hinge and smacked the square body
the zip as his thumb rolled across the sparkwheel
the quiet whoosh of the flame

All the while singing On Top of Old Smoky
loud and off-key