One for the Road

One more peg:

the road now a dizzying black

shining, silver sheets of rain

trees silhouetted drenched,

yet eerily golden, on the rocks;

springing metal and cushion and body

a whirr, a blur

a near hit;

a golden arc tracing the

asphalt, then the smell

of rubber against gravel

mixing with earthy vapours,

then a heady feel.

The road and the rain

inseparably caught in a moment

inebriate;

from drops to torrent

branching into highways of the mind

taking streets and lanes.

Faint recall of faces.

The wiper in its interval

spacing out the open gate,

the driveway, the porch;

the water flicked into darkness,

the road turned away from the open gate

The glass and the lips

arrival and departure.