1st Honorable Mention—

OVERHEAD VIEW
By J R Turek

Overhead View

an eighty-two year old lady, original owner of her `62 Ford Fairlane
in the right lane with her white gloves strangling the steering wheel
her perky blue curls secured by a rakish purple felt fedora
the speedometer trespasses at forty

an eighty-five year old man in the left lane with his left blinker blinking
tooling along to a Benny Goodman song in his son's `61 Ford Falcon
peering through his hands at ten and two
the moldy red feather on his houndstooth hat quivers at a speedy forty-one

he looks right, ogling the Fairlane, eyebrows double-dutch jumping
easing off the accelerator, he admires her chrome lines and turquoise paint
 she looks left, dips her head in a blushing swoon and smiles,
slows down to pry her right hand from the wheel and waves

they flirt and giggle and slow to a wink
behind them, like a parade route, a ten thousand mile back-up
all oblivious to blossoming love
all shouting Get a room!
 
2nd Honorable Mention—

writing (and driving)
By Laurie Zupan

i am writing
the greatest poem
of the century. on my way
to work. in the traffic. stop.
driving in my green
compact. go. praying
for red lights. and RR blinkers
and someone else's fender-bender.
stop. wait. go.

when i am through
Shakespeare will sigh
and touch his breast,
marvel at my
creativity and cleverness.

damn the horn
blaring at me.
flip me a bird. lost the
pencil. ahh, tail lights. stop.

lights. what's so great
about punctuality? trucker, chef
teacher, gas attendant, parole
officer, clerk. if you're late, does the soufflé
fall? the students
fail? the convict go
free? take a breath. relax.
what do you lose
if you just
let me
finish?

damn. i am here.
work.
i am late.
again. and arriving
without a poem.

3rd Honorable Mention—

MAMA’S LITTLE CAR
By Joyce Odam

Her left arm was always more tanned
than the other from resting it
on the window edge as she drove.

I would get carsick from watching
the scenery too close. Don't look
at scenery so close, she'd say.

As long as she had her little car,
we had the freedom to come and go,
 come and go, come and go.

And back and forth we'd go: between
rainy Washington... Oregon...
and sunny California.

My California arm, she'd laugh,
with her left arm out the window—
fast wind tangling her hair. She'd sing.

I'd fall asleep in the back seat—
listening to the car engine—
feeling the rhythm of the road.

The car would break down somewhere
but she'd always manage to get it
started—or find someone who could.
               ~~~
Later—from her wheelchair—she'd laugh
and sigh: you know what I miss most ...?
It was driving my little car ....