NOT REALLY, NEARLY

I drive forest green Volvos
wherever I am
appropriate, accidental,
like most things.
Low-riders, hard-turners,
scratches at the base like
the world wants revenge.
In the mountains,
the company station-wagon,
whose windshield I cracked
with an 8 foot plank.
I don’t know my lumber,
not really, nearly,
switched, instead
to Jamie’s old sedan,
sham Jesus on the dash
that locals took for true.
Then back, to the original,
my parent’s second best,
trim flapping on the freeway,
peace sticker stuck still,
borrowed car cassette,
side A “Whiskey”, side B “Gin”.
That song – “I Got Loaded”
forever on repeat, but
I don’t get loaded,
not really, nearly,
just flushed, wistful, winded,
behind the wheel,
still don’t know how
to balance beers in consoles,
definitely don’t
know how to be country.
Someone please write,
not really, not nearly,
the song about that.