Self-Portrait, Nude with Steering Wheel by Paul Durcan

SELF-PORTRAIT, NUDE WITH STEERING WHEEL

I am forty-five and do not

Know how to drive a car

– And you tell me I am cultured.

Forty-five years creeping and crawling about the earth,

Going up and down the world,

And I do not know the difference between a carburettor and a gasket

– And you tell me I am a Homo sapiens.

Forty-five years sitting in the back seat giving directions

– And you say that I am not an egoist.

Forty-five years sitting in the passenger seat

With my hands folded primly in my lap

– And you think I am liberated.

Forty-five years getting in and out of cars

And I do not know where the dipstick is

– And you tell me that I am a superb lover.

Forty-five years grovelling behind a windscreen

– And you talk of my pride and courage and self-reliance.

Forty-five years of not knowing the meaning of words

Like transmission, clutch, choke, battery, leads

– And you say that I am articulate.

Forty-five years bumming lifts off other people –

And you tell me I am an independent, solitary, romantic spirit.

So it is that you find me tonight

Loitering here outside your front door

Having paid off a taxi in three ten-pound notes,

Nude, with a steering wheel in my hands.

Ruth Padel, 52 Ways of Looking at a Poem: A Poem for Every Week of the Year (London: Vintage, 2004), 219.