The Car

Last night I stood by the car and I listened. I did my bit for the car, which we are all doing. This included stooping down to its level. I was listening for a heartbeat or a deep red colour.

There were so many drives. Do you remember. Where we stopped and when. We got soaked. Even with the rain it never lets in any water.

It nearly rolled that time the boys drove in convoy swerving like the A-road was their laughter.

I sometimes feel for the heat the tires make after a long journey and find nothing. Evidence of something.

The seats are organised as in a football game so the men don’t have to look at each other, he told me warmly over the phone.

During a personal crisis a road traffic accident happens. A grisly fact is shouted later above the hubbub of the busy station-front late at night, but only just. How to not let it become parenthesis.

The only time you could get the boy talking was behind the wheel.

I stood and saw how you take your listening with you. Like the primitive technology of an umbrella.

The red of a brake light is only a filter – a membrane – over the bulb.