Friday, 7 October 2011

dead ford blues

midnight hazards refracts in the mist,
owl eyes reflects in the pass,

little brother grabs hold, clawing hunger in my arm,
blistered baby moans softly and hoots “Hoo-Hoo”

“The carburettor is busted”,

he said over the dead engine,
the thin sound boomeranged into an echo of mountains,

swirling back to accuse Momma in the shadow and the rear,
well worn worries in twenty cities and without pity,
she lived the nomad disaster hoping that one day
the old Ford dies ,

the sun rose from his misty duvet
God despatched a friendly Peterbilt to collect
as we roared away, dad waved in the rear window

we left him with the dead
never to be seen again

1 comment:

  1. wow...what a close to this...well spun story poem

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