Why I Don’t Drive

Why I Dont Drive long poem

Photo by Moyan_Brenn

If there had been a wizened gypsy I’d crossed
who’d laid down a curse upon me or revealed
I would die while driving a car it would make
more sense, this milky inner weakness I feel
when I consider getting behind the wheel
of any sort of automobile and pulling away.

All those advertisements wasted on me
women with lithe thighs and America heavy
metal holding the roads like pissed-off cougars,
patriotic anthems and unpopulated vistas
with nothing but a virgin sliver of blacktop
penetrating them, pointing to the future.

Give me the fiery stink of horse sweat
or the catch and grate of gravel in my tread,
my head exposed to the elements and wayward
leaves revolving like ninja shuriken angling
for my throat. just keep the rolling stock –
lumbering, implacable – away from me.

I’ve watched drivers play for advantage
creeping down the turning lane, menacing
pedestrians, hungrily hopping the curb during
an abortive attempt at parallel parking
and recognized desires within myself, for fire
for the clatter of metal and plastic shrapnel.

The end of the world waits at the end of the drive
that mythological open road just an analogy
for unquenchable desire, magic thinking
that humans can carve up resources and strew
them across the landscape without consequence
can tear up nature and pave it to tame it.

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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Great just a great poem, I certainly agree with the sentiment so cleverly put.


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