Subjective Grey Matter

Bartholemew expected better –
he told K so, in uncertain terms
(the voice wavered, of course,
doing the immaterial boogaloo).

K had taken the wheel,
was drifting around the road,
crossing lanes with abandon

“There’s nobody on the road!”
gleeful shouting, wide eyed, hair twisting
like opposed electrons, wandering along
opposite turns – “Look, Locke –
no hands!!”

Locke’d had enough. Tuned out, turned off.

K barely felt the crash, the spinning disc
of a flying hubcap
slicing into his sloping brow,
that wasn’t happening.



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