"three people on a couch" and "In Accord"

the couch is placed there to accommodate
not made to be comfortable, forced to be functional
the three people are placed together
in a similar way
one is content
the next is happy, but not content
the other is alone.
the foremost is in love, and the next two love each other
yet the first and the second are bound together
and the Middle tells the Other
        he is still looking
and the first with her light thick hair
in a tired mood
distracted, reserved with work
the second with his hat low, boots up
in a mellow mood, lightly sad
wants the third to stay next to him
but she wants only to leave
or to be alone with him

The interior of my mother's car is gray.
It has a nine-year film of Kool's Extra Filter,
and sixty-thousand miles worth of back seat dog hairs.
I remember waiting for Nate and Annie Wherli,
(the elder with a twitch who would stare at the vanity mirror;
I would let him have the front because he was a seventh-grader)
while Mom laced up a black leather steering wheel cover --
to keep her "hands from being burnt in the Summer, cold in the Winter."
I felt muted, too.
She lit a cigarette and pushed the plastic button,
letting the windows down for the other children.

Age sixteen, I was a nervous driver.
I would always fill the tank when it was quarter full
and force corners on backroads, twenty miles over
in fear that I wouldn't make it home on time.
At nineteen, running their errands,
the gaslight came on, the battery choked over;
Dad had to come with the tractor's gas can.
They used it as proof that I was not responsible enough
for my own thoughts and decisions
one month later.

The leather cover is spotted gray -- from sweat and salt
of a decade and one generation of mother and daughter.
For the last time I let the tank run empty,
coasting in neutral,
and walk
head up, away from home.