Tarmac

We get in the car
like it’s a perfectly natural thing,
metal carrying brains and blood
past fields of cows eating grass.
There’s a horse, thick-legged
and ready to run in its steel shoes,
like it’s a perfectly natural thing.
Tarmac is no place to land.
We dance on cigarette machines,
fall asleep in public toilets.
We get jobs, move town, get hobbies.
We plant trees and write poems,
like it’s a perfectly natural thing.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s