*One of the earliest poems I wrote…and written with deep frustration behind it!
Our car is not small, as cars can be,
like a little red car that sticks your head in your knees,
or a tiny MG with a fake backseat,
or a cab truck with no room for feet.
(You realize, by now, I don’t ride in the front –
I get shoved to the back with a heave and a grunt.
“Tuck in your knees,” the favored ones say,
while their seat can’t slide for my legs in the way.
I hate to inform them I’m no longer so small
I can be shoved in the back with no trouble at all.)
Our car is not small, I have to admit,
but when a seat slides back, I don’t quite fit.
“But where else,” they say, “could you possibly ride?
Back in the trunk, with other luggage beside?”
I feel I’m doomed, as I grow so tall,
to be stuffed into cars like I’m still small.
You old people in front, enjoy what you’ve got –
As soon as you’re gone, I’m taking your spot.