in mom's car

the floor of
the station wagon collected us:
white grease-stained fast food bags
handfuls of sand
smashed pine cones. 
held our relics close
and asked us to bring more,
opening all doors
the trunk gaping mouth
seats giving into soil.
together on long car trips
trees would have time enough to 
sprout tall
the car imagining a world
for us 
folding us deeper inside
her blue metal skull 
the doors miles away,
did the car plan to keep us?
my brother and i, 
meandering in 
different forests and deserts
losing a bracelet 
a ring
a kazoo a clementine
we ambled
seat belts slung over our shoulders,
sometimes, calling out
each other's names
just to hear how deep the echo would go. 
forgetting this was our mom's car,
that, somewhere, 
she was holding
a steering wheel like a sun hat. 
did she wander too?
barefoot maybe did she
forget that she had children?
we never talked about it 
when we found our ways out
back to the doors
brushing dirt off legs
from the jungles 
and prairies the car build
from our own discharged items 
we were going somewhere
there was somewhere outside
the car
i wonder though, if, sometimes, 
she took long rides alone. 
if on those rides 
mom might have wanted to stay there
bringing sandwich wrappers to her car
like offerings 
asking to go away somewhere
with a faint breeze,
wearing the steering wheel on her head
as a sunhat.