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.