Driver

Late afternoons,
it is this time
that I, a woman,
take my turn to ride
my husband’s jeepney.

I hoist myself up
on the driver’s side
then l o w e r my body
onto the seat and
swing my legs
inside.

My husband smiles and says:
“There, it’s your turn.”

I tentatively touch
the l o n g handle
of the gearshift, close my hand
around its head then
gently
coax it in reverse.

Easing the vehicle onto the asphalt
it isn’t long before I am looking at the
long
hard
expanse
of the road ahead.

My shoulders strain my shirt
as my hands and body
completely maneuver
this sardine can on wheels
as it thrusts
through the gas-fumed streets.

At every stop, a passenger
slithers and squeezes
his or her way between
the wet
sleeves and mixed odors
of other passengers.

A man behind me rests his
big
hand on my shoulder:
“para ho”
I grunt and snatch
the change on his palm.

It is not easy to do a man’s job
toward the end of the day
I drop my last passenger off
floor the accelerator,
speed through empty streets so fast
the sweat beads spatter on the windshield.

And despite the aches
a sudden urge wells up
to see my beloved.
I imagine him waiting
for me knowing that
I could never wait

to come to come god!

to c o m e

home.

Rate this Poem @ GotPoetry.com