Rapture by Blondie

A crash test dummy with a straight-mouth smile and ‘Vince’ written on its chest. Only its chest and above is visible.

I’m not the most skilled student driver

in driver’s ed,

but I’m the one willing

to drive back from the ice-cream stand.

The only one not eating ice cream.

Everyone whines

about wearing seat belts,

required thanks to new laws

and crash test dummy

slapstick commercials.

But I like the way

the taut band snugs

smooth across my flat belly.

I inherit Dad’s

primer-gray Chrysler Cordoba.

The cheap replacement

for that wrecked company car.

Mom says nobody drives in NY

plus he’s never

getting his license back, anyway.

It doesn’t take me long

to understand

our curling country roads

are made for speed,

that tilting back the seat

and blasting my mixtape

makes me feel like my nasty,

ashtray-scented, fifteen-ton car

sets me free.