I have held forth
before, of course,
about my clambering
into the car—
the weapon
on wheels—
the metal machine—
the loud suit
of armor—called language
and imperiously putting
the pedal to the floor.
But
what I hadn't
mentioned earlier
was that I
never learned
to steer,
so that renegade DeLorean
just excursions
where it wants,
and I'm frightened
a little
to be its servant
from inside it—
less like a storyteller
mowing down his readers,
and more like
a hapless country squire
who used to dream always
of becoming a knight
but never
of having to go
to war.