death trap

my knuckles would
be white, gripping the dashboard
as she tried
to make every light.
sometimes the lights turned red
before she was
halfway through.
the rattle trap of a car
on bald tires,
no horn, no radio, no
air conditioning still had
power. she proved
it with her wide
heavy foot, always seeking
the floor board
as she pressed on,
driving angrily.
my foot hit the imaginary
brake on my side
with every stop sign,
and turn of a corner,
tires screeching madly.
the wind beat our faces
from the windows that wouldn't
roll shut.
every drive was a race to
somewhere.
you buckled in, said a prayer
and closed your eyes
as she passed trucks
along the highway
on our way to a farmer's
market to get fresh tomatoes
and sweet corn.