taking the back roads

my father
grips the wheel
of his ancient chevy impala,
white knuckled,
squinting into the light.
is it green or red he says
speeding up.
rubbing his eyes as if to clear
salt water from them.
green, I tell him.
good he says. good.
that was a close one.
should we take the freeway home?
no. I tell him.
let's take the back roads
today.