Drive.
I don’t know whoever thought
I should be trusted with such a mammoth heap of metal.
The handsomely polished demon,
left to my shaking, feverish hands.
I guess that when you turn 16,
it’s expected of you.
You’re supposed to look out the windshield
attentive and assured,
ready to take on whatever hits the asphalt.
However, some avoid the words “driving school” at all cost.
The flimsy drivers manual never seemed
to want to stay in my hands too long,
and my ears retreated when I was told to practice.
The driving instructors offering to bum me
cigarettes never really helped me grasp
the best way to make a three-point turn.
Stuck on my folding chair in a room with
about 30 other sweet sixteen's,
I tried to find comfort
viewing the serene images placed in the
slide shows of victims of crashes.
“Better watch out!” they harp,
“this could easily be you!”
Yes, because I look just like
a stiff crash-test dummy.
Although, maybe I do because
now my face is just as expressionless.
I get more pained as the months go by,
taking notes on right turns and what animals
it’s okay to kill,
until I was face to face with the portly man sitting beside me.
I played with all the gadgets and gizmos until he looks
satisfied, and we’re off to the races.
Sailing down a black river,
he tries to make small talk with me.
School studies, favorite hobbies, comfort foods,
anything really but the sunny yellow paper on his lap,
like a diary tracking all my mistakes.
After faking our joyride, I went to make
my turn back to my father, who waited with wide eyes.
His daughter, the driver. Sweet, so promising.
Look to the left, peer to the right.
It’s clear, so clear, like my head, like...
SLAM. “DID YOU SEE THAT CAR COMING?”
Well, no, because my eyes and my brain had poor communication skills.
An x inks its way around the piece of paper,
and my father can only offer a hug,
close and comforting.
The car, that bastard, and I lacked logic in our relationship for some time, but eventually, he steered me to victory.
What a delight, I found, it was to sit, stuck antsy on my folding chair, with about 30 other sweet sixteens, waiting for something at the Department of Motor Vehicles.
