He got in the car at seven near Aylesbury.
He was dead at eleven near Shrewsbury.
I don't recall the in-between time.
I know I buried him in a ditch somewhere near Stockport,
And that I ate lunch with him as we passed Birmingham.
I don't know what set me off.
Maybe it was the chase.
The refusal.
Those dancing lights skating ahead of me on the motorway.
Some things never change.
No comments:
Post a Comment