I love cars; not for speed or style
But that they go anywhere
Between white or yellow lines,
And they need only a spark.
The engine thrums then roars, in order
Like two movements of a symphony
That resounds and then is camouflaged
With a calmness lingering over the dashboard
In the inertia of an unknown destination.
The scenes on the sides whizzed by in my
Childhood faster than at the front where I am now in control, as though
A good cameraman recording a two-person exchange:
Objects of interest are clearly seen, their truths heard
And I decide which way to steer.
Driving is intoxicating because it feels driven,
Unanchored, with only occasional glances in the rear-view mirror
Although emotionally inadvisable, it is prudent
To know who’s right behind.
I think I can’t drive and think like everyone
But my duality of thought/action should suffice for a drive, if it does in life
After all they seem the same: I notice trees when they lack;
Unstoppably stumbling forward, stopping where beautiful reality seems too good to last.
The mind is free between two pedals, or three in some,
To brake or push on is learnt in early mistakes
But perhaps not too well by me, because at
Junctions are roads as black and promising freedom
Like all the others: cornucopia of infinite or a T-junction which which is more an “I”,
But at least beyond where I have been parked.
The photograph is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s album: [ˈPRAꞪA]