Rearview Ghost

My father's Taurus, that faded blue,

like an old bruise on a summer's day.

I'm in the back, hot plastic stuck

to my thighs, the floral print

a dizzying blur of brown and gold

too bright, too much.

My head against the window, buzzing.

The road a ribbon, endless, gray.

The same fields rolling by again,

and again,

a silent film where nothing changes

but the light.

My hair electric, standing up

like I'm a shock, waiting to happen.

There's nowhere to go but forward,

trapped in this box of slow motion,

and I just want out,

or for something to break.

The world outside keeps moving,

but I'm not. Just here.

Still here.