Commuting (Edit 1.1)

[Brownlie]

The car knows the route with no help from me
which leaves my mind open to play poetry.
The rhymes rattle 'round like coins in a monk's cup
while the radio urges me to "Funk it up!"
I shuffle stubborn stanzas and try
to find the right order as miles fly by.
A dance in my seat gets the meter to spark,
the trick's to retrieve it after I park.

That's pretty good. I can critique it if you move it, but that is my cursory opinion. For now I'm going to sleep.