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, parked in the lay-by,

switches on its camera and zooms for a close-up.

I glance at the dials and press on the brake pedal –

even though I’m under the legal requirement

a pang of guilt eats its way into my conscience

and many miles later I’m still checking in the mirrors.

 

Steve Earle blasts from the in-car CD,

tells me of the trials of travelling The Highway

in sun-bleached Memphis where the black-top’s melting –

while here on the Pennines the sleet is falling.

My mind is out there on a black and silver Harley,

not cooped up in a Nissan with a whistling windscreen.

 

A red BMW pulls up to my bumper,

its lights ablaze and tyres screaming.

His hands don’t seem to be in contact with the wheel –

one tugs at the hair, while the other is waving,

erect middle digit thrust in the air –

the universal badge of a brain-dead schizo.

 

I subtly avoid his bulging eyeballs,

veins that stand out like worms on a mirror.

He wants to hurt me, to torture and kill me

for being in the way of his manic agenda  -

and as he hurtles by, doing ninety miles an hour,

I switch on the wipers and slash away his slush.

 

The overhead signs demand I slow to thirty,

roadworks ahead and hazardous conditions.

Despite all the warnings, some will not listen.

As I draw closer, I’m not surprised to see

his burnt rubber path clearly visible -

leading to a blazing, crimson coffin.