I’m seventeen and behind the wheel
and you’re old, probably heart attack-prone
in a thousand-pound machine, broken seals,
transmission issues you never got to.
We’re both scared but you drove fear into me
with most concern for your car above all:
take a right, merge here, stay under twenty.
But I’m not inclined to foolhardiness
when you’ve put airbags on all street corners,
red lights stalling with anecdotes of youth
as I circled school zones twice over;
A Goodyear on black-yellow avenues.
I test my mettle against car metal,
the road pulls forth when I gas the pedal.