I am the print on the window.
sing me white-knuckled at midnight
when the roads are sleek
I still make the sign of the cross
kiss my fingertips
and clutch my nana’s rosary
never been in a big accident —
didn’t realize with all this adrenaline
I can hear the screaming of metal
it’s my teeth turned to diamond
it’s my eyes burning tar pits
it’s these things I’ve said and can’t drown out.
is it fog or pink cloud?
if you know you’re the only one who knows
I want to explain but with less visibility;
I want to admit I can be better
but the harshest critic’s smashing car windows
and stealing keys.
I at least need to see the road.
but what if I can’t
accept the way the radio never plays
any good songs anymore
and no one else knows how to drive.
stay in the car.
lock the doors and roll the windows down.
loved the smell of gasoline
til I turned up torn down
buckle up or down.
now I worry the battery’s dead.
I know it’s new, but.
if the battery was dead.
I couldn’t do it but I can’t drive better.
I don’t let myself park.
it’s Christine or lightning, or a thunderbird
I forget what I call this heart when I’m good,
when I’m bad I remember lemons.
I gotta take a spin, I gotta drive somewhere
til I hear that whisper on the radio
even though they never play good songs anymore.
maybe they’ll play one for me.