Roadtrain

by Luke Otley

I feel him coming
through the base of my seat, under
my thighs the vibrations spread
like disease as darkness
holds its breath
and my oil bubble trembles
at the edges,
the spectacle-
all red lit
like a Coca Cola truck
is here
and gone
faster
than Christmas day.

And you’re left
with the left overs,
the next day
turkey sandwich sedans,
and wagons
like dry mince pies
all gunning hard
as you like,
weighed heavy
by the soundless night,
which clings to everything
like pollen.

My roadtrain’s wake
is littered with these shimmers,
they drag
harmless as bullets
through water,
and are as unengaging as nature
is for most of us.

And so this is how I quantify you.
Now I can measure
to the gram
how much hurtling steel
is enough
to make me forget
you, if only
for a moment.