The Dead Fathers

Where are they now
given the hard math of finding
fewer places to park than zero?
Where are they to clutch and pound the wheel
of envy and self-recrimination?
Where will they circle and circle back again
in an underground maze, mother-this and mother-that?
Where will they say over my dead body am I shelling out to park
because who ever heard of paying to park in a goddamn free country?
Where are they to be found if there is nothing
left to do but block traffic with turn signals blinking
right left right left
and laugh the laugh of the freshly deranged?
Where are they to be expected
to raise a middle finger in the rearview mirror?
Where are they going to be
reminded with a look to count to ten,
to breathe in, to breathe out?
Where are they now
that they are even too late to be late?
Where is the way home on the map?
Where is the goddamn map?