Underage Driver

Underage Driver

Part of my backyard landscape, growing up,
was a Model-T pickup truck
rusting in weeds. Don't get me wrong—

it was ancient even then! I would climb in,

sit on upholstery cracked and burst, to drive
into my future. I liked the feel
of the round shift knob in my right hand.

Then hornets nested in the cab,
and made me a pedestrian again. At just

around that time,
a sunning copperhead usurped the ledge
I descended, reaching Piper Brook.

I yielded ledge and brook to the copperhead.

Age became what parents warned about—
you stretch out your hands,
and others gird you and carry you where

you never meant to go.