Before safety mattered,
we rode in back

without seatbelts.
The radio never played

anything that rocked.
On long trips I became

an agent tracking secrets,
taking pictures with the camera

hidden inside my eyes.
I stared at the back

of my father's head,
his black hair starting to gray,

and fed him directions.
Always faster.

Sometimes it worked.
Usually we snailed along.

I can't remember when I discovered
I was a double agent,

when exactly I cracked the code,
the slight nod. Then I rode in front,

next to my father, with control
over the knobs. I become him,

a trick, wearing his clothing.
A voice in my head tells me

to drive faster. I resist.
Still the trees blur.