The Man Behind The Wheel Poem by Rajnish Mishra

Eyes, hands, gear stick and the steering wheel
And the man behind the steering wheel,
Know not the one who walks, breathes calmly thinks.
They're not one and the same. It's strange, but truth links
Things - many things. There are many things better far
Than spending life, one-twelfth of it, rolling tires on tar.
And he, the man who breathes, thinks, walks, knows not:
The man who pushes pedals, changes gears, vrooms,
Whizzes past people and places, stomach in a knot,
What that other man does to him, of all he has done,
After ignition. Fancy pants, faints painting even one
True likeness of him who-can't-be-named, or tamed.
Thrilled, blood on teeth, crouches the beast unnamed.
Hands on the wheel, eyes set straight, grunts and howls
The man-machine - primitive, state of the art - he prowls
Bare asphalt desert searing, half-molten, sticky, hot.

(Women and old men drive tamely, they're sane,
No testosterone, honking, adrenaline rush, or ego vain.)
He races against time, he wins. He presses pedals, rushes fast,
Drives - impatiently, angrily - plastic, glass, metal past
Many, clears, cuts through slow, slimy snails, driver's bane,
Switches lanes, swerves, then goes slow and blocks their lane
For revenge. He drives with geometric precision, goes through.
He drives with a drive to drive, eye of the tiger, half-a-smile.
Lingering fingers or eyes on screen, not his way, his style
Is simple, not a moment extra spent on road. Erupts rage
Sometimes while he outdrives, with a battle to wage
Every moment. How could they delay him, keep him away
From the man who thinks and force him to drive? He, she, they,
I, maybe We, are one and the same. Mon semblable, mon frère? And you?