A Little Envy

Today's poem is about driving ... another area in which I am certainly no expert. 
No, it's not about some adventure, or misadventure, with The Little Red Car ... whose exploits have been detailed in Squiggles & Giggles, my (late lamented) weekly e-mailed newsletter.

Little Red is fine for local driving, and we do a lot of that together, but when we go out of town, those lo-o-o-n-g-g-g trips, we let Little Red rest while we pick up a rental car.
Little Red is a very basic, usually reliable car, but lacking some of the bells and whistles, not to mention mysterious buttons and tracking devices found on the newer models.
That has led to some adventures, too ... like the time we drove all the way to Illinois before we found out how to dim the headlights.
It usually takes me a couple of counties, at least, before I master the "set speed" and "resume speed" settings.
This is a poem about discovering one of those marvels which (shhh!) Little Red lacks:


A LITTLE ENVY

Leaving a town,
heading west,
the car senses
my light touch
on a button,
and I marvel
as it resumes
highway speed,
this collection
of steel, plastic
and fabric
with a memory
better than mine.

© 1997

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: memory

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Oh, thank you, Featheredpines ... I still had the nagging feeling that I was the only driver in the universe who'd drive briskly off from the rental plot ... then spend the rest of the trip wondering what some of those buttons were for. I was always nagged by the feeling that one of them might have been to activate an ejection seat ... and there I'd be, sailing along above the car.