Inherited Grip

His old pickup, still smells

of stale coffee and oil rags.

Sun hits the dash, cracks

map out the years.

My hands, bare,

find the wheel. Not thinking.

Just settled,

ten and two,

knuckles white,

like I'm holding a grenade

or the last thing left.

It's his grip. I never meant

to drive like him. But here it is,

a muscle memory,

tight, unyielding,

even on this empty road.