drive

a poem about driving

today i drove through the suburbs,
crying because i have to go to work,
my right foot sits comfortably on the gas pedal,
as the same green rows of trees smear my peripheral vision,
until it jerks to press the brakes when the lights turn red—
even with no cars around.

every day i pass by the elementary school.
in the summer, the sign with the letter tiles stays the same:
back to school aug 14.
reminiscing about when we used to have a break each year gets harder and harder.
time dilation is a bitch.
maybe it would have been nice to become a teacher?

i enter the highway with the same wide turn as my german car lurches forward,
and i merge quickly into the carpool lane.
i used to pause and think:
does absolute power corrupt absolutely,
or is power given absolutely to the corrupt?
but now, the honesty policy escapes me, while i try to escape the police.
an unlucky civilian gets stopped by the black car,
and i’m sure everyone thinks, “that could’ve been me.”

humans can be filled with such fear and bitterness.
the road ragers are keyboard warriors who get behind the wheel
and terrorize the rest of us because they think that they can
hide behind their windshield of anonymity
and use their middle finger to punctuate their sentences.
even their license plates are auto-generated, too.

i do believe the way you drive reflects who you are as a person.
i have an impatience that annoys even myself,
and the drivers who see my face in their rearview window must think
the stereotype is true,
but no! i swear, the problem is me!
i need to beat my neighbors in this race
even though our journeys are different
and the finish lines are not the same place.

but seriously,
where is everyone going???
i feel like i’m just chasing pavements…
i sink into a state of highway hypnosis, as i listen to
the cars around me falling into rhythm with each other,
dancing across the white dotted lines
like notes on a music staff that are
n i c
e n h
v o
e r
r d
s.

although i usually sit in my car in radio silence,
driving like a psychopathic robot on autopilot mode,
i sometimes try to act normal and turn on music.
but then i get annoyed that the bass doesn’t reverberate through my eardrums
and that billie’s voice only lulls me half to sleep.
the beats must get lonely with no body to accompany them.
christ, i want to use my hands!!
but i don’t believe in jesus.

i feel trapped in this vehicle all the time.
i can’t work, i can’t use my phone, i can’t take a nap.
i have to keep my eyes on the road and take frequent peeks at the map.
it’s nice to be the passenger princess, from time to time, i admit,
but a few wrong bumps in the chariot will have puke in my lap.

dear california,
are you allergic to public transit?
i don’t want tax credit for buying a white tesla model s.
i want my taxes to be used to build an efficient subway system—
one that has clean, antibacterial seats,
one that makes punctual stops distributed evenly throughout the bay,
and one that has a barrier with automated gates that open into train doors.
is it too much to ask?

some people love driving.
i can understand the thrill of zooming down a highway with the windows down,
feeling the salty breeze from a nearby beach caress your face.
but for me, it’s just a chore i have to do each day.
the same turns.
the same exits.
i’ve memorized which lanes to avoid for potholes.

when i return home in my car,
i think about all the roads i could have taken.
knowing that tomorrow, the day after, and the next,
i will be taking the exact same one again.