what is it about a stickshift that makes everything better?
the door handles would always
freeze on cold mornings.
we would have to brace our feet against the ice
lean back far to open a door.
mama would slip back and fling herself into the driver’s seat
a beckon for me to jump in before the line got
too long at the store and all the
coffee went cold.
we liked to pretend we could drive to the beach from here,
swerve around corners where everyone still lay sleeping,
roll up to some deserted boardwalk and collect
sea glass to keep in the glove box.
shifting gears after the stoplight, too slow for
commuters who pass by with raised middle fingers.
she pulls over, breathes hard, screams.
I lean my chair back, taking in the scent of
bananas we had let rot under the seat
and cup her hand like I understand what’s going on.
she starts the engine with a splutter and we laugh
like we didn’t just run away, laugh like
punches weren’t thrown as we pass by,
no punch backs.
two women
laughing
like a yellow beatle could make anything better