Inside its cold,
cold as a fridge.
“Put on some music pleeeeaseee”
they say it’s too noisy,
too hard to concentrate
but that makes no sense
as there are no turns
just one long road;
a flat piece of liquorice.
The windows are dark
tinty I think,
outside its orange,
deep and loud
glow of the sun
burning the sand,
on fire.
Seatbelt is tight across my chest
I rock to free myself,
to clicks and clatters
a metal chatter.
The seat squeaks,
black and sticky
hurts the backs of my legs;
“Well if you wore trousers!”
I don’t like to
they creep into strange places
and itch.
Pictures and words go fuzzy,
make my stomach swirl
mixing everything up.
Together we count
so far there’s 30,
25 cars
the rest trucks
so big they rattle our insides.
Around there’s a whirr,
air being whipped and slapped
ice cream without the flake
or the sickly
red and green stripes.
The window screeches,
light and heat pour in
silky as melted chocolate,
shouts make me close it.
A curtain drawn
leaving me
behind,
stuck backstage.
Photo from: http://arjunbasu.com/archives/the-endless-road-to-publishing