MY STEEL SHELL

Mark

When I drive to school

I always hope

people are standing around

because no one can help

looking at my yellow Mini.

It’s bright as the sun,

speedy and slick.

I weave it in and out

of those concrete pillars

meant to slow cars down

on school property.

We’re supposed to brake,

but I just twist around them

smooth as a snake.

Sometimes people clap,

but not the principal.

When she sees me

she calls me in

and gives me

a lecture

on safety

on being responsible

on how a car isn’t a toy

but a machine that has the power

to kill, as if I don’t know that.

She sounds like my mother

warning me about speed:

Haven’t I lost enough already?

Mom always says.

Don’t they know that when I’m in

my yellow Mini I’m safe,

impervious?

The car is my thick skin

and when I’m

in it nothing,

nothing,

can sink

in.