Sarsaparilla Road
travels through swamps
and reeds, over a black
water creek and a narrow bridge

Not in that parking lot,
not in that residential area,
not in that blue car
splashed with mud.

we make sure to pack a deck of cards for the train, or a sunday afternoon visit to the park. the cards will give our hands something tangible to do . . .

Hey kid, this won’t mean that much to you yet,
but I didn’t taste my first proper curry
till at least twenty-one . . .

Aimless between
Dropping out
Of art school
And absolutely no
Friggin’ money . . .

it’s a special kind of empty
the footed earth, saluting the sky

It beckons from between plasters and hand cream,
the box bright-white, the lettering green.

Travel West. Submerge yourself
in the M4’s homeward drift.