Ghost Drivers

You're freaking me out, Waymo.
I've never seen invisible.
But there you are,
driving with your invisible hands.
Drinking your invisible latte,
radio tuned to KBOO

Take me for a ride, Waymo.
Thrill me with your silence.
Let me stare out the window,
lost in my thoughts,
instead of having to answer
dumb questions about Christmas shopping.

I could like you a lot, Waymo,
once I get used to you.
I want to defend you against ignorant naysayers,
wringing their hands about safety.
I'll vouch for you.
You can't possibly be more flawed than humans.

I trust you, Waymo.
You don't text and drive.
Or drive while exhausted.
Or drink and drive.
Perhaps you even eschew
high fructose corn syrup,
and always remember
to put the toilet seat down.

Alas, Waymo
you are the child of humans.
My trust is not implicit.
But I'll happily ride with you anytime,
into the future.