My Brown Toyota and Me Over 17

You started it

by passing them up.

Those high heeled trucks or BMW jaguars,

or Mr. Commuter, I'm better because my car's apparently new.

You don't understand, It isn't that they think we want to go on 17,

we have to, we're supposed to be underprivlilegeed right laners,

to them, we're old, we're brown, and we're women.

They don't see, we're 65 next to them,

on seventeen we're somehow invisible in speed but neon-lit class, gender and raced.

Those businessmen bullies, those computer chip people passing us up because we're going too slow at 70

their cars are babies, they don't see we've already gone to history and back.

They pass us up

because they think I'm poor and slow,you're brown and old.

They don't know we both have a new heart, yours a privilege of the '92 Toyota body that crashed in Cresswell, and the toothless mechanic that remembered,

mine, the fuel consumed from being a woman.

I would have liked to be slower because I'm brown, I know you say,

but I'm ahead of them, I've already had my heart patched up and it's doing well.

And me, I'm ahead of them

because I know my clutch can crack down at any moment.

We'll never catch up to them, Cost Co, hot dog eating middle classers,

or double decaf double fat free milk mongers,

we are two brown females up a windy four way road.