What You Could See From There

The front seat blocks everything—

just the back of it, that tall fabric wall,

the headrest where someone else's head rests,

steering a world I can't see over.

From where I sit, the horizon is the top of that seat.

The world is only as tall as the person in front of me.

I remember this now, passenger,

pinned to the back, watching

the road appear and disappear

one moment at a time,

only seeing what someone else has already passed through.

The front seat's shadow falls across my lap.

Whoever's driving makes all the choices—

which way, how fast, whether to stop.

I'm just along for it.

There's a window but it shows me side roads,

trees at eye level, the lower world,

the smaller world, the view that teaches you early

that some people get to see ahead

and some people just get to see what's beside them.

I'm older now. I could sit in front.

But the memory of that view has never left—

the specific powerlessness of knowing

the road continues beyond the seat that blocks it,

into a distance I'll never get to choose.