Pontiac

my daughter already talks about the
car she wants an Audi, new, shiny
that her friends will admire like
her iPhone with apps that take
wrinkles out of faces in photos

I tell her about my maroon
dented station wagon, Pontiac
1986 Michigan-made to barely
last past puberty

I parked it with pride
my piece of remembering
that life is unreliable
always ready to
start then stop

blind to history my daughter
will never know the struggle of
driving a car that quit, gave up

for her they don’t exist
like rotary phones
like an indigenous name
turned into painted steel

Uber San Francisco

The future is in my way, again. A double-parked quasi-taxi, stopped in front of a green light, passenger getting in, cradling a phone. Uber claims to bring safe, low cost transportation, delivering a complex, precise, advanced product, but all I see is another clueless driver almost causing an accident. Behind the wheel, they start and stop, eyes glued to Google map screens, barely noticing pedestrians and other cars. Mostly gone are the old timers in yellow cabs, guys who survived Vietnam, grizzled veterans who really knew the city. This future has younger navigators, better cars, people doing their side hustle for cash.

But no one knows where they are anymore. Sometimes when I’m in my Prius a random person will open the back door, expecting me to drive them somewhere, until they figure it out and vaguely apologize. Uber sums up San Francisco: connected, disconnected. Connected to technology, disconnected from people experiencing homelessness. Connected to tiny screens, disconnected from face to face community. And this is only the first iteration, a prelude to the Uber vision of self-driving car automation. Efficient future, people sitting in the laps of robots, free, captured.