Big Man. Small car.
Big Man. Denying that the weight of you
puts pressure on the seat,
that the faded wheel turns now only from force,
that the windows would open themselves, gasping,
heaving, had they the choice.
Perhaps that little car hadn’t known your intention
when you opened the door.
“Only a test drive.”
“A gift.”
“He’ll turn himself away.”
Perhaps the car had.
Perhaps the car had thought she was big enough
to take you
where you both needed to go.
To show you a new way of seeing,
a new way of living.
with no plan but to live.
Big Man, you.
Thinking you’re so big
you can make anything fit around you.
Your chest as big as your belly,
a globe designed for spinning
but left—denial—to stiffen in the dust.
Thinking all you need to do
is push and squeeze and inch your way in,
inch after inch, until you’re so deep
the car can barely remember herself
before the heaviness of it all.
Thinking you will show all of ‘em that this little number
belongs to you as you drive around town,
paying closer attention to the eyeballs eyeing you
than the signs that warn: stop.
Big Man, alright, thinking you can always get yourself in,
but not knowing that if the car you chose
because to you she was so small
chooses not to move with you,
you never will.
You’ll die there, man, just where you’ve always stood,
covered in the dust she’ll leave behind.