The Car

Whoosh.
Where is it going?
Who is inside?

The car.
A metal tomb, warm and familiar
That transports you to another world,
Be it round the corner or down to Land’s End
I’m watching their progress, coming round the bend.

Whoosh.
Another one whizzes by.
Another driver at the wheel.

The car.
A metal womb, enclosed and protected,
Favourite snacks in the well by her hand.
Opera or Jazz wafts round the capsule and out of the window
Dulcet tones of Boy George, Peggy Lee or Plácido Domingo.

Whoosh.
It is out of sight.
The driver a distant memory.

The car.
A metal room, a shoebox on wheels.
One minute she was there and then she was gone.
Blurred snapshot of a motorist, one arm catching the sun.
I wonder where she is going in her second home on the run?

 

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