Narrative Poem

Driver's Test

By Ed DiMartino


With unsteady fingers, and liquid legs
I try to stand with unquestioned poise
Making amends with gods I offend
And praying aloud, overtop of street noise

Attempting to clench, with staggering fingers
A set of mangled and rusted keys
I place a hand, to charming effect
On my father's '87 mercedes

The tension-induced anxiety
That wrenches my shoulderblades aside
Is cut for me, when turned to see
The authority with her heavy stride

"Lets begin," she says with a grin
"To assess your capabilities
Now don't be shy, and step on in:
-sit-
-lock-
-check-
-check-
-check-
"Check," she says, as I show her the keys

"Im kind of nervous," whimpered from my mouth
"That's quite normal," she reassured
"We're simply driving two miles south,
And back," but my shakes are still uncured.

Straight to my heart, the engine start
Sends, with haste, a thousand volts
And resonates for a year or two
It feels, as both my arms give jolts

With vice grip and cement arms' force
The steering wheel gives out a creak
And as we lurch, premature remorse
Flashes 'DANGER!', I still pray not to seek

But as time passes, my arms grow numb
And as concern plays an ironic game
For late night worrying seems rather dumb
When lack of sleep is an accident's blame

Heavy eyelids are wrenched to my brow
With a sour look upon my heavy face
But attempts of concealment seem futile now
As my visions mesh without a trace

"Are you alright," speaks a strong lullaby
That swirls my concious up and down
And before I have chance to even reply
My future - an omen - is fatefully bound

Out of nowhere it seems to approach
A stepping-stone mountain before the wheels
A look of terror on my unfortunate coach
Is all I remember between the squeals

The squeals of tires over the curb
The squeals of her wreched, piercing voice
The squealing swerve, and those that observe
But not the squealing animal noise

The creature that I skillfully avoided
Must have wrought from within the vain,
Broken, messy, demented nature
Of chaos from my fatigued brain

For in a glimpse, I see no fur
Or tail, or feet, or even snout
But from a crash and shocking blur
Expels a pouring hydrant-spout

Whipped into a mangled form
And from my chest gives out a heave
As it's pounded by the safety airbag
Which I always thought would be more comfy

But through this traumatic experience
I could never have felt more shame
Than to look across the clipboard, hence
To find a large red 'X' beside my name