.30) The Sense Of Touch Poem by Max Reif

I hold the steering wheel
of the car in my hands,
I hold the world,

gripping tightly
its vinyl over hard plastic,
able to turn on a point
with my power steering,

peering over the dashboard
out through the windshield
at a world I seem to control,

driving at a whim on excellent freeways
to any point on or beyond the horizon.

O complacent illusion of control,
until I remembered last night's dream—
My father appeared,
my father who died five years ago.

'I'm here! ' he said. 'Touch me! '
I reached out and touched.
You are here! ' I gasped,

comforted, and woke up,
and he was gone,
and remains gone