Night Shift
Rats run across the A1 and fade
into the hard shoulder. I shake my
head, wind down the window, take
deep breaths of iced air and bonfire
remnants until I reach the services,
park, and let my eyes close for a
hundred seconds. Want to call but
you’re at The George in your leather
jacket and orange lipstick, and you
never answer anyway. The phone
rings and sends me to Oxford, so I
slap my cheeks, switch on some
grime, and I’m fine until I reach
the lights, where there’s a man
kneeling by his car, spanner in hand,
working at his wheel, and when I
slow down to look, he’s gone.
I accelerate, see flashes in the trees,
but I focus on the cats’ eyes, turn up
the radio, go into fifth .
Hannah Tuson lives in Hertfordshire. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Kingston University. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in Notes From the Underground, Cadaverine Magazine, Spread the Word’s 2012 anthology: Things That Have Happened, Pomegranate, MAP, Message in a Bottle and Mslexia.