Blank Behind The Windscreen Sit

Blank Behind The Windscreen Sit

Blank behind the windscreen sit,

sealed tongue between dried out slit

of pressed white scarred lip.

Parked pair of cardboard fools:

a bonnet and boot

full of blunt useless tools

are hidden in plain sight.

Any conjured thoughts once kind

are soon tossed off:

The creme brulee of idiocy

baked forever on the mind.

Eyes behind shades:

Sunglass impression of night

makes mockery of all once right.

Hands gripping the wheel tight,

skewered to sticky seats

by the cocktail gear stick,

prick by prick, brick by brick,

through love’s memories rip.

Vacuums where minds should be,

hold hands beneath the trembling knee.

A nag and pony by the bit,

blank behind the windscreen sit.