Friday, July 12, 2024

BUCKLE UP

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.