We tug along the cats’ eyes, thinking of you.
Below us the roadkill is a pheasant rainbowfaced, and the radio and I
Are spaniel tenors, just bawlin’, darlin’:
Sit in on our traffic jamming.
We’ll sing you the hairpins, and the zebras, and the bottlenecks.
Crested beauties, breasted cuties; yeah, I’m-a gonna do that all day ‘til you roll those pretty amber eyes right out.
To think: all these pedestrians are allowed faces, but none of them are yours!
We got you all atomised, my piñata: we always drive singing from you,
But also, somehow, always, to you.
(Kerb that thought.)
I can honestly swear, with hands on wheels, I shall think on you for miles yet.
Mindwanderlust, the radio and I;
We’re just fussing with the idea of
The burst silt of the thought of the look of you in the bypass
With our hands, untentative, ten-to-two.