on the silver horse

left alone on the road without warning. the streets flood with children and taxis and I try to steer the silver car from the backseat. my hands can't reach around the headrest for the steering wheel. I part the current of oncoming traffic spinning into unsuspecting families and homes. symphony of screeching tires and horns. cinematic mushroom smoke in every mirror. the car is made of death: we speed ahead and crumple everything that passes between where we are and where we're going. screams and burns and I can't hit the brakes. the horse won't stop: accelerator floored by some phantom brick or ghost. we gallop towards an unfamiliar tunnel. my fingertips slip from the wheel and I prepare to make a coffin of someone else's car. 

when I wake up I check my wallet for my licence. it's always there. I never see the tunnel through but I can drive a car.