One of my hands grips
the wheel, knuckles white. The other
cradles a cigarette, lifting it to my lips, then
flicking it out of the window in a shower of sparks. I look over my shoulder.
Bobby’s lying down on the back seat. A fly that’s been
buzzing around since Monroe lands
on his upper lip.
© Helen Lewis, 2011
I wrote this poem during a round of SPARK in response to a song written and recorded by my brother, John. The mood of the poem doesn’t match the mood of the song at all, but that’s the way inspiration rolls sometimes! 😀
Click here to listen to the song.