Cars, Those Sirens
There’s nothing calming in a car.
The decisions all go against you.
Timing doesn’t work either.
Like the year you never had spring
and nothing yellow happened
until the wattle bloomed in winter
too early. Now a car waits, it’s white
and seemingly all-encompassing
with a lot of doors.
It smells as though something’s melting.
There’s dust on the glass maybe
or the thought of more travel.
That song! It never worked.
‘We’ll go no more a-roving’.
They’ll never fix time zones, or provinciality
the need for postcards, airport coffee
or scanners.
The car leaves, the car arrives.
You come back, you go again.
You’re going somewhere, no place.
You’re sitting waiting for the crash, the sirens.
They come forward with gifts.
They steal your luck and your luggage.
They never let you go.
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