"But No, Out the Window it Goes"
You hear the word so often,
your eardrums wrap themselves
in Kevlar. The finger always points at you,
like Torquemada selecting the next heretic
to burn. You know this like you know
the number of fingers in a fist:
the last thing they want is for you
to take the wheel. No, no —
your role is to sit in the passenger seat
with hands folded like a cloth napkin
and do penance any time the drivers
hit a bump. God help you
when they slide across a slick of ice
and run into a ditch. That’s when
they scream that the drip-drip-drip of fluids
into your bladder has upset the synchrony
of their hands and feet. It goes like this
for decades; then one day their eyes
are blurred, their limbs are shaking
like flat tires on battered rims.
They toss the key to you.
If only you were responsible, you would
raise a hand to catch it.
© 2008 Fred Longworth
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