You are nine, and the sturdy surface of the leather seat
Keeps you company while your brother is away. At rest stops he goes
Off with Dad, off by himself, always off without you,
The baby in the back seat. Neither your brother nor your father
Ever tucks you in to bed the way you think normal brothers and
Fathers might; yours toss a blanket over you if the stifling summer air
Seeping through the window cracks isn’t enough to keep you warm.

You are nine, and your teacher asks you to draw your house.
She asks to see you after class when you turn your drawing in,
Surprised to see that your roof and four walls is not built
On solid ground, but on a metal frame with four wheels.
You tell her that you’re finally tall enough to see over the seats
And watch the warning lights on the dashboard glow at night
Without straining against your seatbelt.

You are nine, and you learn to tell time with mile markers
And speedometers when Dad lets you sit up front for the first time.
You watch your brother in the rearview mirror, read that
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear, and remember that
You are not the favorite child. A warning light blinks on behind the
Steering wheel and indicates a problem with the brakes;
It goes unnoticed by three pairs of eyes.

You are nine, and like your father’s car, you cannot stop.
Resentment builds like momentum inside; fuels you like
Gasoline; drives a wedge between you and your father,
The mechanic, and your brother, his apprentice. You are only nine
And already you are a wreck of busted machinery and irreplaceable
Parts; you are a challenge even for the most skilled grease monkey.
You are not yet old enough to get behind the wheel.