a sour sigh held in

by the wisdom of silence

offers a yet-to-come glimpse

of rage reverberating against

the wheel you manically steer

down the retched road of hubris

© Candice Reineke 2021

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I sat in lines

At biting point

Biting my lip

Then gave it up

Put my lip balm

And the hand brake on.

Staring out I

Swam away

From all-combusting

Fits of flames

I, treading thoughts

'Til the tide changed.

Then snorting fumes

I blew away

Flew queue jumps

Flipped bird parades

'Til stung by horns

I thudded down

And sauntered on

To ...

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Encounter (This Motorway’s Mine).

A black crow struts down the central reservation,

pecking at the remnants of undefined road-kill.

The white dotted line stretches out forever –

reminds me of the perforated slip on a tax form –

something that’s required but causes great effort

to tear along regardless, and sod the consequence.

A lemon-curd sandwich, parke...

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