[Verse 1]
Tuesday, four-fifteen, on Clement Street,
gap between a pickup and a hatchback, tight and neat.
I creep up slow, crank the wheel, tap the brake,
mirror shows a minivan just idling for my sake.
Guy behind me taps his horn like a woodpecker's beat,
I'm sweating through my collar on a ninety-degree seat.
Curb's got a lip, I'm scared to kiss the tire,
six cars deep now, I'm the whole choir's one flat note.
Pull up, back up, pull up, back up, stall —
the line behind me's growing like a parade for my downfall.
[Chorus]
Every headlight's a courtroom, every bumper's a jury,
just let me find the curb without the whole street in a hurry.
Every headlight's a courtroom, every bumper's a jury,
just let me find the curb without the whole street in a hurry.
[Verse 2]
So after dinner now I practice at the kitchen table,
thumb on the wheel of a game that's barely labeled —
Parking Jam, the game, no bumpers and no faces,
just dotted lines and curbs with zero witnesses in places.
I clip a cone, I laugh, I just hit retry,
nobody's leaning on a horn, nobody rolling an eye.
I learn the spot where the mirror meets the fender,
forty-five, then straighten — small moves I remember.
Tiny screen, quiet room, but the shake in my hands gets smaller,
muscle by muscle, the panic learns to behave.
[Bridge]
Still, real streets don't pause for me to count to three,
still a stranger's grille close enough to read the company.
No game mimics a cab driver drumming on his door,
some days I'll still stall out, half-blind, keep score.
That's fine — I'm not aiming for perfect, just a little less afraid.
[Verse 3]
Saturday morning, lot's half-empty, low stakes but still my heart races,
I ease in slow between the painted lines, no watching faces.
Then Sunday comes, the church lot fills, eyes from every window,
but I breathe, recall the forty-five, and let the panic go slow.
I nail it clean, first try, no horn, no sweat upon my brow,
six months of practice in a kitchen finally paying off right now.
I text my sister, tell her 'parked it, didn't even shake,'
she laughs and says 'who are you now,' and I laugh at the change I make.
Small wins stack up quiet, like coins dropped in a jar,
I'm still no master of the road, but I've come so far.
[Chorus]
Every headlight's a courtroom, every bumper's a jury,
just let me find the curb without the whole street in a hurry.
Every headlight's a courtroom, every bumper's a jury,
just let me find the curb without the whole street in a hurry.
[Chorus]
Every headlight's a courtroom, every bumper's a jury,
just let me find the curb without the whole street in a hurry.
Every headlight's a courtroom, every bumper's a jury,
just let me find the curb without the whole street in a hurry.