(writing prompt: model your poem after another- I chose Geraldine Connolly, The Summer I Was Sixteen)
The baby blue bug beckoned me,
its body freshly washed, its windows shiny
and waiting. I jumped in, my ripped jeans
sliding onto the black seats. Giddy with joy.
Turning the key, I pressed lightly on the
clutch, and then lifting my right foot,
gave the car gas. Moving. Slowly and surely,
I felt the rumble, left security, and rolled away.
Windows down, air as warm as buttery toast,
Beatles blaring. I grinned and dangled my arm
out the window. Turning. Watching the
yellow light. Yes, this is my car.
Eyes scanning for friends on foot, I drove
past the grocery store, through the park, and
onto the highway leading out of town. All you need
is love. My day-old license, an A&W root beer,
singing to no one and everyone as I emptied
the gas tank mile by mile in my tie-died t-shirt
and Birkenstocks. Hoping and praying
for someone to see me alone and in control.