pounding the pavement

in this human race
I am losing it; I feel like
a shit sac with arms. God
gave me a voice
but the devil
with that

waking
throat dry
as a vase’s

shepherths pie
lantil soup or
ceasars salad;
do I dare?

After miles of self-elected pace setter cars, swervers
who pass and cut back like pinking shears, the
perpetual left turn signaller took a right off-ramp, it’s me
and the ones going by like I’m standing still, and the
poke-a-long-hazardy with dents on both sides
of body panels. On the 417, around a bend,

rows of cars slow ahead – what’s with this? then at
overpass’ posts, the nose of a copper. On sight of
the speed gun my foot springs up, sole light as drizzle,
drop sandbags from laces, 8, 10, 12, 20 clicks off instantly.

Already 2 cars are wincing on the gravel shoulder.
Speed trap dad would say, my partner would reject that
reenforcing common sense.

on my machine
not months but moments passed
since
in your recording your face lightens
hair blows from your brow
tickles
your exposed neck