The sun drags itself
onto the horizon,
as it does each day.

The smell of last night's rain,
still lingering mindlessly.

We are in your little black car.

I ride shotgun
      while you drive.

It's littered with papers
and opened letters
I always feel awkward
when there's no speaking
as the car's radio is broken.

Just the low rumble
of the weak engine
to fill the void of silence.

So I play out a song
in my mind and
wonder if you
simultaneously do the same.

We stop at a filling station,
where I buy breakfast and
you purchase petrol.

As you pump,
I tell the lady
behind the deli counter
what I'd like and
what you'd like.

She shoots me a
Cold glance,
It must be what
I'm wearing -
black brogues,
black drainpipes,
tweed jacket,
polka dot shirt -
Or possibly my hair -
It's too long for a boy,
yet too short for a woman - she'd think.

Country folk
like to stare,
they don't get much
to look at,

so when they do,
they want to remember it.

I say thanks
and pay
and leave.
We get back to the car,
you try to get in quick, and
end up clocking your nose with
the driver's side door.

As you sit down and
check out yourself in the mirror,
I'm surprised it's
not pouring out blood,
like a pathetic fountain.
You run a tissue across it.

-Jamie