The traffic went North and South

The traffic went North and South

He rings me to say he’s eating fried chicken on the motorway bridge
with Martha,
and I see her slick haired fl-flicking her lips
and smiling at the strings of sucked sweet traffic.

I can hear the concrete struts groaning
as I dip into the pit of wondering
if there is mayonnaise caught on her filtrum
and if his love wants to lick it off.

Beetle legs click across windscreens
and his cheek bone
as he lifts up his mobile to get better reception,
is magnesium.

The conversation cul de sac
closes in like a curtain I’m not expecting
and the compass of us creaks
off left to some deep sea rift.