Lost in Traffic

Feb 11 2013


A man of his age
who is dwindling, and often confused
has no business
behind the wheel
of his plush 4-door Lincoln,
more scuffed and dented
than I remember
last time I was home.
With all the fancy electronics
he chooses not
to touch.

But a man of his time
must drive.
The rite of passage
so essential
to manliness.
Back when cars were black
and heavy gauge steel,
unsafe, at any speed.
And you racked up miles
like a badge of honour,
(or even damned kilometres
how ever many that is).
And earnestly believed
only chumps paid for it,
driving miles
for a prized spot,
parallel parking land yachts
with sure precision.

But these days he'd be lost
if he couldn't find himself
lost
in traffic,
often paralyzed
with indecision,
ramming curbs
straddling white lines.

My brothers and I
should be diplomatic, but firm,
confiscate his keys.
But we are cowards, or in denial.
Will keep relying
on the skill of others
who share the road.
On the reflex that comes
from a lifetime
behind the wheel.
Not to mention airbags, seat-belts.

Or hope a minor accident
will put a stop to this.
After which
he could keep his last car
in its regular spot
the key on its fob.
Because possibility
is what an old man needs.
And you never know
when a good man
will be called upon
to take the wheel.