The Backseat

Throw what is futile to the back.

I sit where shotgun refused to sit,

Where all the wind blows,

Creating a tornado, so I

Eat my hair and the polluted air.

I sit where I cannot hear the front seat conversation,

I cannot see the laughing or the crying,

Where I can only hear the distant echoes of music, like

He is singing to me from Times Square, but I am in

Harlem.

The black leather blocking my view,

I am restricted to only left and right, like

Solitary confinement,

I see what they already saw,

And it stays tested.

I spy with my little eye...

Nevermind.

I am backseat,

No attention is payed, I am

Unheard voice singing the unsung song and I am

Where they refused to sit,

Seat belt locking me in for the ride.