Or "Rascal Flatts", for short.
Daft Punk was playing on the radio as cigarette smoke from the window of our 2013 Toyota
rolled out behind us
and turned into orange-push-up sunrises and Game-boy Color sunsets,
Swing set summers under Disney VHSs and Pokemon cards.
For a second I wanted to turn the car around.
But when I tried, it groaned and stalled; like a mother in labor
who forgot to breathe, or an old man limping on rusted leg,
and I was stuck on the side of the road,
watching as people went seventy in a fifty-five.