by Wills Troubadour
A stiletto snagged in a pavement crack.
Two bottles of Sainsburyís sangria flung in a ditch.
A lake of vomit like curry on the sidewalk.
Her bare foot, an anchor on the accelerator.
His head, wind-whipped, bobbing out of the car.
His eyes fixed on blood blisters popping in the night sky.
Her eyes, marbles shooting back into her head.
The steering wheel, a roulette she spins, red, black, back to red.
Pedestrians shuffle, scamper up lampposts. Senghennydd Road squirms,
but canít get out of the way of the Volkswagen,
a fat rat rolling across both lanes,
under an overpass, into
a tunnel that unhinges its jaw
and inhales.
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