A small, boxy Chevy
 in fading, beaten beige 
 a reminder of a lost aunt 
 sitting at the side of our lot
 taunting two silly friends
 to find the key,
 coast across the street  
 around to the back of the church,
 to our own training course – 
 carefully planned pebble paths 
 curved around crumbling concrete headstones –
 one gripped the wheel
 two-handed, straight up 
 at the edge of the vinyl seat
 while the other rolled the radio dial
 and called practice commands
 Stop! Reverse! Park!
 Giddy and strong
 we were free,
 we were new and ready
 like the souls
 stirring just below us.