The Passenger

In the back seat, my spine curved back

the way it used to do,

shoulders hunched against the lack

of control, and I knew

that the face in the window

was ten, was small, was still below

the horizon, counting mile markers,

making up stories about

the other cars, the dark ver-

sion of motion, and I'm still out

here, watching the blur,

letting the landscape stir

up what I thought I'd left—

the belief that speed means arrival,

that motion is a gift,

that I'm driving toward survival

when I'm still in the back,

still not driving, still stuck on the track.

The landscape blurs the same way.

Nothing has changed except

the age of my body.

I'm still folding myself small.

I'm still waiting for a place

I never actually wanted to go.