Spontaneous Combustion Engine

I drive a '72 Buick Skylark with a gold body and white top. The engine hums like sweet music as I glide along. Things on the inside are oddly still. Just outside this windshield the world slips past like water. The roadside is drawn towards me as if by magnets. This is just how it is. I do not think about it.

I do not think about the million and one violent explosions under the smooth gold hood that power the pistons. Angry sparks spit out to ignite me on my way.

I do not think about the lonely dinosaur who died drowning in a pit of tar so his fossils could be my fuel. A proud beast whose oozing remains were sucked from their final resting place to burn for me.

I do not anticipate the gray squirrel whose quest for a morning nut sends him scampering into my path. A quick thump and then a glance in the rearview mirror to watch his strange one legged flapping dance on the pavement.

I do not think about the shattered lives that could be the consequence of one momentary lapse in concentration. Fumbling to change the station might maim an entire family of five in the oncoming lane.

I do not think about these things because this car is very big and it is magic and I am protected by the immortality of youth, my trusty seatbelt and the promises made to me by my insurance agent when he sold me my full coverage policy.