Sweaters

Sweaters. That’s her name.
Not sure how or why, but life can be
incongruent sometimes. We roll with it.

She’s quick. She’s tiny. She handles like
a skittish greyhound in a bouncy castle.
Worth it, to be able to zoom past the petrol stations,
cackling insanely, one bloodshot eye constantly
tracking back to the tell-tale range estimator.

We sprung for the “stylish” model (tacky),
an awkward collective self-pat on the back
for saving the planet, micron by micron.
That’s worn off.

But she still surprises me when she pulls up
in the crowd of big boy monster trucks, hulking
station wagons, and soccer vans. She slips in
silently, smug and certain, like a European cardigan
at an American Worst Xmas Sweater party.

I hop in, wonder at the beautiful ladies in my life,
hit the seat heater, and hold on for dear life
as the g-forces kick in and we zip off
into Portland’s nascent traffic jam

– Stephan Williams