The Left Foot's Memory

My brother’s leg is a clumsy pillar of plaster,

so I take his keys and climb into the cab.

The GMC smells of old tobacco and damp wool.

I turn the ignition and my left foot lunges,

a blind kick toward the dark floorboard.

It wants the clutch. It wants the friction.

It searches for the resistance of the plate

where the gear finally catches and holds.

The stick shakes against my palm,

a mechanical tremor that travels up my arm.

The body is a filing cabinet of old habits,

remembering the weight of the work

even when the road has flattened out.