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Drive
by
Rusty Broadspear
I'm driving
Want the radio to cut off
Hear your voice
Tell me your love is real
I'll turn the wheel
My choice
The white line
Zips under me
And in my lights
Trees find feet and run
So fast
Need pepping
Lids dropping
Surf stations, stimulation
Cold
Reaching old
Swinging bends
See old friends
Hitching
Twitching
Seeing snow
Driving frantic
Lost in romantic
Swells of rivers
Of black tarmac
Want it back
Beatles sing
Norwegian Wood
The flat
So neat
Seat on the floor
Hair pin mountain bends
Ends
Sit cross legged
Sit, smoke, drink
Tyres overlap the edge
Engine screech
I reach
For outstretched hands
Faraway lands
Gravel and muck
Hit the underside
Swerve
And as my car and me dive
Fingertips touch
Alive...... so alive.
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