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.