"Each time you stop, you use the handbrake. Why?"
He sighs, his hands draw hills, he shakes his head.
How often has he told me that, instead,
Vienna's earth is flat? I clarify,
again, that I was raised with mountain bends,
the burning soil of Africa, lush valleys,
not bumpy cobblestones, tram tracks, tight alleys,
the intermittent drizzle, and dead ends.
So, while we're idling, waiting on flat ground,
imprisoned by the rush hour's traffic jam,
my instructor sighs again. He thinks I am
unfocused, but he's wrong. While all around
the honking cars rev madly my heart aches
for winding dusty roads that need handbrakes.