Passenger
I'm back in the back sometimes now that Ben drives. I peer out between the head-rests, uneasy at first at how fast it all feels. Eighteen already, and coming up so close to the car in front we'll be flung about when he swings out to pass it. I brace myself, hold my tongue.
He's confident though, knows the road and doesn't take risks. A few miles and my phantom grip on the wheel relaxes, I tick over, idle.
He's changing gear smoothly. I slot my hands in my pockets and settle to these novel peripheral views: culverts, cloudscapes, a kestrel.
In front they're talking, their voices take turns, change pitch, but the words are blurred by the engine's vibrations; to join in I'd have to lean forwards.
But I'm warm here and drifting off, lulled by the whop of the cars passing, a boy being driven home surely by my father.
Michael Laskey
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