From his bed in the capital city

Borrowed title from David Berman king of poems.

From his bed in the capital city
we are driving home to Norwich.
The windscreen wipers metronome march
us through clingfilm sheets of thought rain.
He tells us not to trace our names
on the car windows
as not even Banksy could have spider stencilled an ice city for ants.

Our legs air pat like Fred Flinstone
and we are making ground, the tyres wilma
wilma wilma tarmac.
Under the snow handbag rooms
are brimming with wasp husks
buzzing like unanswered texts.

We are imagining the photographs;
the white blanket strung with bright like milk teeth christmas lights.We gleam.
The traffic police
speed past us eating bowls of ice cream
clean cashmered feet up on the dashboard
reading new novels.

A distant thought truck threatens to dump
15,000 tons of sleep onto the capital city
which will melt the ice awake
and bring sunbathing back into the mainstream.
This cannot happen. And anyway we're tracing
cold place names on each others cheeks.

Theres a man holding orange juice in a plastic bag not very far from the motorway bridge,
the sign says 'anywhere near you please'.
We decide we'll let him in despite the whole seatbelt thing and when we stop at a service station he tries to make us flush breathe with a story about bikinis. We tell him about the journey, how we are running like the Flintstones
and how we'll know we reached home
when we see frozen Banksy trees.