I’m not sure why

you think it so inconsequential

when you slip your fingers

over mine over

the stick shift

It makes me forget

about the oncoming headlights

my anxious feet

wrestling the pedals

Long rides as a kid

tuning the radio knob

shielding my ears

from the crunch of static

my father’s personal vendetta

against parking lot islands

and those scenes upon scenes

of photogenic heaps

of smashed up scrap metal

littering the right-hand shoulder.