You Drive Your Car
YOU DRIVE YOUR CAR
You drive your car
and you see your life retold
in the smears arced on the windscreen
from the slow rain.
Here and gone. Here and gone.
But never really gone;
the smears are left behind.
You take the river ferry
on a windy day.
And the wavelets that appear, breaking
white on the water's surface,
stain the sky's reflection for a moment
before they disappear.
Then return, and the cycle
repeats. And repeats. And repeats.
From your garden in winter
you watch two squadrons
of great black Carnaby's Cockatoos
blunder and squabble across blue sky,
then the storm clouds invade
its purity, and its perfection,
filling the heavens with turmoil.
You pull out a book to read,
but find it's one of your own,
the embarrassing first one,
and shudder at its crass assumptions.
Stick to the later ones,
and forget your pride
(it's the first of the cardinal sins).
At last, you divide yourself
in your Theatre of the Absurd,
good and bad in opposing corners:
last one standing gets the prize
that bursts like a puffball,
releasing its spores in an ancient forest.