Feet would float,
Music would stride,
Singing while flying...
In my father's scooter..
That glides...
Standing upright,
Right next to the headlights,
Gripping the lights tighter,
While feeling lighter,
As the twists and turns,
Went out of sight...
Like the arms of a wounded fighter..
Family of four,
In a wheel of three,
A picnic, a restaurant or a department store,
In the marching spree,
While I felt free,
Stalled at my scooter's best seat..
Sneaking a treat,
Or smirking a fleet..
Make way for the horn,
For here comes the feeling
To experience which you were born...
Holding onto a wedding gift,
Or a toy to play,
there was always plenty of room to stay,
Afternoons pretending to ride,
Friends coming over to stand beside,
Catching a nap,
Or hidden behind soothing a bumpy trap,
Always doing what's told,
Striking that bold look,
Aced that sturdy equalizer..
I grew tall
but dad never made the call
for me to take the back seat,
as he knew I loved the streets from the front row,
and couldn't believe that his daughter would one day outgrow...
waving people,
swerving medieval rush,
was an era that vanished..
as I stood there astonished..
still dusting her out till date,
and keep remembering our first scooter ride...
*Dedicated to all the Scooter Rides With My Father that I enjoyed during my Childhood
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