Toyota RAV4

I live,   a stained passenger of your parents’ car,

spilling cheap and greasy meals we shared.

Who needs a receipt?

Drive me to school again.

Who needs a receipt?

Songs echo through my empty skull.

Turn signals switching late –

changes only tasted in the chassis’s twist.

Your scriptures etched into collarbone,

reviewed in the sun visor’s reflection.

Mom asking where we went for so long,

We took the long way back.

I go on 16 now.

Same jeans sprawled across the seat,

different palms gripping the wheel.

Roll the windows down,

let them shake with the bass in our throats.

I’ll check the side-view mirrors.

You never looked behind,        what a terrible driver.

I own the stains, same food Dad bought,         

the lyrics we begged for, the ones we cried to.

The moon; taillights streaked across blank evenings.

Will my shotgun be called?