Howard Firkin
I’m parked. I close my eyes. I wait. It’s coming.
Rain oxidising steel, a cruciform,
two roads, one intersection, coming storm,
the wires in the skies are really humming.
I smell the diesel rainbowed on the tar.
The glow of dashboard lights, the radio,
the memories of nights spent waiting for
a big show, slumped against the cabin door,
the ambo, towie, cop unholy trio,
backstage, we wait for screams, we wait to star.

The headlights coalesce and curdle, pass;
another set of heartbeats I forget.
Tonight, no television lights, no glass,
no blood, no flame, no singing flesh. Not yet.