Learning to Drive at 32

I should have learned to do this years ago:
maueuver a car in and out of traffic,
gliding my vehicle swiftly down the highway

as if I'd been doing it all my life, as if
I hadn't been crouched in the back seat
those Sunday afternoons my father tried

to teach my mother to drive: no, woman,
you daft or something, I swear I'll leave
you right here-his voice filling the car

as she fumbled with the wheel, hands clumsy,
car lurching then stopping as she fought
for control. I should have learned before

now, at thirty-two, my driver's ed vehicle
careening into a parked van, my foot
stuck on the accelerator I think is the brake,

hands atrophied on the wheel, my instructor
slamming his foot on the second brake
as we crash, metal on metal, impact

fracturing the van's windshield to a web
of damage. Should have known I'd make
a mess of this-going too fast or too slow,

not looking left and right, wrong foot
on the accelerator, wrong foot on the brake.
I shouldn't have remembered-my father,

still calling her stupid, my mother, head
down, arms folded, not saying anything
except all right, all right, you drive.

A. Joseph