Poetry 2017

It Keeps Me Out of the Driver’s Seat

By: Nathan Childers


I keep having dreams about car crashes.

About being shattered at the waist

About mosaic windshields,

And dented skulls like car doors.

I keep thinking about how the Jaws of

Life might be better used on someone else,

Or how they better get my good side

When they take pictures

Of the crime scene.


I keep driving by foreclosed office buildings

Covered in graffiti and messages

That say “Dream”

Or maybe they say “Drat”

But honestly, it doesn’t matter.

And honestly, the guy who wrote this

Probably died years ago,

Or moved away,

Or had a much better epiphany he

Scribbled onto the Kroger near my house.


My dad told me my worth can only be measured

By the kind of work I produce with my hands.

And just yesterday

I paid some guy thirty bucks to change my oil.


It’s still amazing to me how the universe has this perfect

Formula of nebulas and black holes and how we’re

Only calling ourselves the center because we’re

Pretending we discovered it first. And while the universe

Can compose some symphony of shooting stars and

Imploding suns, I can hardly remember to have my

Keys with me every time I drive.