Passing Through 1959 Poem by Cheryl Lynn Moyer Peele

On just another tree lined street,
that we were passing through,
children were hitting rocks with sticks.
The baking smell of fresh biscuits
swirled into our lungs as mother hurriedly
rolled up our Chevy’s windows,
pushing down its locks with trembling hands.
When she nervously stopped at a phone booth,
small black curious fingers pressed up against
my closed rear window. As she jotted down
directions for the way home, I simply touched them back,
one by one, where the raised glass had begun to melt
between our fingertips.