Every other Friday night.
Season after season.
Do you want to ride?

No?

That’s alright…

My steering wheel–
She listens to my conversations,
I’ve never said aloud.

She hears me when I sing.
And listens when I laugh.
She sometimes even tables,
The tears I let pass.

My hands she holds in place,
If she feels them start to shake.
Or, when they start to dream-
inevitable escape.
That desire to drive,
Day or night,
No end in sight.

My favorite high.

But it’s getting late,
And she brings me home.

Another day, another time,
Another every, other Friday night-
I-5 Drive.