by Constance Brewer
Riding on the passenger side,
everything look/feels wrong.
My mature eyes can't read
the speedometer, note the status
of the gas gauge, scan the rear
and side views for trouble.
We move fast—much too fast,
turn too sharp, drive too close
to other animate objects.
My foot stomps the non-existent
brake pedal, right hand clutches
the overhead door grip. I flinch
in anticipation of my teenager's
frustrated sigh. I restrain
myself from commenting
on technique, anticipation,
turning radius and anything
He already knows it all.
He's good, a better driver
than I'll ever be. Fearless,
not reckless, proactive,
not reactive. I forgive the out-
burst of exasperation, the eye-
rolling, the heartfelt expulsions
of breath, and instead, study his methods.
I've given up my attempts to explain—
it's not about him, but my mistrust
of the intentions of the rest of the world.