Poem in Progress: ‘DRIVER’S SEAT, LATE DECEMBER’

Here’s new poem in early draft form. Think winter driving here; think year’s end, and such.

Enjoy.

DRIVER’S SEAT, LATE DECEMBER

to your eyes, the windshield, from white-knuckle

hunched here, is each hung-over morning’s first sour-fogged glimpse

since drink one. navigation’s a thick-lidded blank

blinking, a near-crying shame; everything fulsome with

nothing but opacity’s weeping;

glances awash.               your stomach? tight

as those tenacious grannies you’ll later find snaked

in your tossed shoes’ abstruse lacing.               you intuit winter’s

rain racing – against itself – into you, frantic to undo

some small thing.               you can’t – you’ll grant – see,

and fear the tyres as rain-moled in their search

for purchase on asphalt.              as, all for naught, your hands pull at the steering

wheel, struggle to agree on a true meaning for over.

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