Driving Stick

Two burritos
but you’re driving
so I juggle both
belly-sized bricks.
I peel back an inch of foil
barbacoa beef
ready for the request
of your silent hand
outstretched.
After a bite you
hold it out again,
dripping rice,
I snatch it up
immediately,
abandoning my own
so you can turn the wheel,
eyes straight ahead.
The sunroof is open,
music is blaring.
Salsa burns my lips
as I watch yours.

First gear! you shout
and I don’t know where first gear is but
I grab the stick and shove it
up and over
we slide to a stop at the red light.
My god I say but you say second gear,
straight back and I do it and we go,
we’re gone,
your burrito just a sticky end
I cradle into your palm.
When you say chip
I dip one in guacamole
and place it between your fingers;
I will always be here for you.