A picture I saw on a patch of wall

Dust and dirt hid the edges, the frame faded

The shades of black, setting the tone.

Reminded now of this grim sight

When walking home in the early hours

Lights blazing from bungalows, the never-sleeping

The cul-de-sac stretched and warped

Through shadows on the green.

To stay and keep vigil by the postbox

A solemn red flecked with peeking crimson

And watch as on the same minute

In every hour, the car completes a circuit

Lights, exhaust, wheels slipping.

Cryogenics are here to help me now

As a bath in the streetlamp, ice covers

Submerged in dark, the moon sleeps

The performance closes, cones are set up

Tyres checked, all motors stalled.

The weather has the final word

With me, a dictator, free to choose

To turn from this haunting image.