Unblinking, the dummy will be strapped in,
and, with plastic hands mockingly placed on the wheel,
will find himself surviving
hundreds of carefully choreographed accidents.
As the car's engine warms up and the video cameras begin to roll,
does he know? Blind, he shouldn't be driving;
but maybe he's just closing his eyes,
imagining a polystyrene partner in the passenger seat
and two small dummies playing games in the back.
They've planned a picnic. Of course, at the beach.
He's had a rough year at work –– needs a break.
The warm ocean breeze picks up speed,
pneumatic hisses, like the squalls of seagulls,
the nauseating rush before falling into the clear, deep
glass.
Maybe, as they're dusting him off and reattaching limbs,
he, unflinching, remembers why
he wouldn't wish this life on others.
Still, those few moments at the beach with a family:
the stern words with the kids,
the wife's hair blowing, salty.
Maybe he looks forward to it.
