I probably look strange to those who
drive past me —
talking, crying, singing, whispering, or yelling at
my windshield. The longer the ride, the better.
More time for us to catch up.
As a child, I would tell God my secrets
atop the monkey bars.
I no longer have that luxury.
I have my dad’s used silver Altima,
this vehicle, this set of wheels that
miraculously continues to roll with me around
over every hill.
Sure, lil’ bro named her Naomi when he
got his license.
But I decided long ago that this temple
has no name.
Editor’s note: This story is part of our October 2016 series ‘Hundreds of Words about My First Car’
Elliot is pursuing his master’s in Magazine, Newspaper and Online Journalism at the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications. He writes about culture and entertainment, and has made approximately $7.99 in sales from his underground rap career. You can email him at firstname.lastname@example.org, and follow him on Twitter @ecwilliams30.
Read Hundreds of Words by Elliot here.