Coming up to forty, life’s a load
of balls — a straight and featureless road
of rain patter, wiper swish, tyre slosh, landscape blur;
a diesel engine’s sinister, somnolent purr.
You come to at the wheel
to realize you’re in fifth gear and feel
freaked because you don’t know for how long you were
spaced, like you weren’t even there,
just a console and windscreen,
a dark stain snaking through the green.
Each time you hit a straight the rim
of the moon looms like a bug-eyed loony bin
in the middle of nowhere, not knowing where
you’re going and more than halfway there.
by Alan Gillis
from Scapegoat (2014)