I failed the driving test
three times.
I blamed our Toyota Avalon for failing me,
because it wasn’t either of Ford Malibus
I learned to drive in.
The breaks were
too sensitive,
my dad was too snappy
in the Aldi parking lot
where he tried
to learn me the subtle art
of two point turns:
a helplessly pointless maneuver
easily equated to five hours of drills
for approximately one use
per twenty years
when one must renew their license.
It’s a liability thing.
The DMV office near our home (.1 min)
flunked me once.
The DMV office near West Asheville (10 min)
flunked me twice.
The DMV office in Marshall (50 min.)
passed me once—
after we hired a personal coach
who used a pair of crutches to walk.
I assumed
no matter my inert lack of locomotive skill,
I would be a better student
than his last.
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