Road to Nowhere

A slender, slanting rain; roofs
and power-lines shine. Not a night
for driving to anywhere, or worst still,
away. Foot, hard down – pumping
the gas. DJ spins Chris Rea; gravel
voice to the susurrus of tyres on asphalt...

Red pelt of a fox, curled by the freeway.
Ain’t no time, nor place for a sweet
valediction till the engine’s at a halt,
and wheels stop spinning; roadmap’s
folded back into neat little squares...

and in a second-rate motel, the last
room is taken, and the last of the glasses,
plastic rimmed – lipstick traced,
trashed in the bin, and a last cigarette,
discarded in an ashtray, smoulders,
obstinately yet...

till a guitarist strums the final note
of the last ever love-song, that floats
on and on, and over us; effortless,
and eloquent as an unmade bed,
then disappears, like vampire bats
at daybreak, from a nasty dream.