Hatted under the Beetle's roof,
Grandfather is immune to flipped birds.
I never disturbed his pipe smoke when
he hit 20 mph in the fast lane.
Signal lights were treacherous ornaments;
he preferred his left hand for turns.
If you want something done well,
you have to do it yourself, he growled.
For years he taught me the fear
of hitting curbs. Lanes were demon
paths that inevitably skidded to
guardrail, shop windows or fenced lawns.
These days driving lessons include
how to steer clear of white lines.
Instructors swear against road hogs,
women who double park sideways.
Three times now I've flunked exams.
It is difficult to unlearn old ways,
accept that honks may not necessarily
belong to someone who loves Jesus.