Road Harry and Nicola
I park the car. A row of windshields Reflect the neon stop lights. I stand and my legs creak and stretch My head above the row of salt stained car roofs. I’m met by a breeze carrying Salt, sand, pollen, clay. We are near a highway and near the ocean. The last light fades above a row of dark houses. One stopover before returning to our lives.
This little patch of carpark, growing dim Is just like the one I sulked in as a child, Waiting for adults while they shopped, As children do. So many moments to absorb. Car parks. Highways. Salt, sand, pollen, clay. Wind blasted holiday motels with names like Pacific Oasis. Birds mourning the day with their last plaintive cries.
My country is highway, A stretch of beaches, A stopover. The land of my dreams Stinks like the back of a fish shop.