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.