Who wouldn’t relish the pink skies
of a twilight winter drive?
Oh, for a quiet ride.
But Anxiety is a mealy-mouthed passenger:
no stuck out chin chest beating bully;
insinuating instead into the drivers seat,
she slips my gears.
Oh, for a quiet ride, but undeniably too
Vexation sits, inclined as though struck,
like a damp yeuk sandwich on the seat beside me,
puckering his lips to sip from
a plastic flask of patched up paranoia.
Oh, for a quiet ride indeed. Enough.
I swerve onto the curb, and
belt unclasped by confident denials, depress
an inbuilt ejector switch. Out they tumble,
rumbled by optimistic assertion.
Ha! In the Hollywood diversion, at last, a quiet ride,
pink skies deepening to best radish red,
conundrums left behind, nothing to remind me
of mistakes, unlucky breaks, driving west…
Okay. Apply the brakes. Get out. Slam the door.
Pick up the pieces, crank the heater,
dry their rusty tears and drive them home.
It seems we are not ready, each, to function on our own.
Surviving, and sucking last year’s fruit pastilles,
we all three, at least, appreciate the pink skies
of a twilight winter drive, but sometimes, sometimes -
Oh for a quiet ride.