In Cars

In cars, I'm him.
I make the shapes he makes –
one-handing the steering wheel
as if grasping some mane,
I cup the gear stick bulb
like it's a brandy bowl
and coast to junctions
clutch disengaged
scared as sharks to stop,
though on open road
I’ll box in better cars than mine,
a sudden stickler for the limit
I slap down and squeeze your knee
celebrating damming flow,
carbon monoxide whistling
from a leaf-choked vent.

What damage we do in cars.
I twist in my seat
then back up, bump bumpers,
wrench the handbrake;
it will take two smaller hands to undo.

That look in the mirror is all about me.
My shirt sticks.
In cars I'm him: you drive.

contemporary poetrygendergraham

◄ The Hitting Game

The Hitting Game ►


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Greg Freeman

Sat 9th Feb 2013 12:02

You capture well the personality change that comes over some men behind the wheel, Graham. Don't often see poems about this sort of thing. I used to be like that driving in London, and enjoyed it. Thankfully I don't have to do it any more.

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