rattle
thrum
POP
smoke
this time
not to be ignored
life never goes up in flames
just sizzles and fumes
unfavorably
ends not with a bang,
but that goddamned whimper
three hundred thousand miles
(sounds better than five hundred thousand
kill – om (ah hum) – metres)
and you drop dead
(I surmise only one of us wanted
that camping trip)
smoke
siren
embarrass-
meant-for-someone-else
smiling ‘I’m sorry’s,
hoping to get out
(dashed hopes)
just in case you were still wondering:
you’re here to
stay put
(is that an order?)
The Halfwit Writer 