Fetch me a tonic, frothing
with something unpronounceable –
that’s what I need,

right down the gullet,
unofficial doctor’s orders. A sip
of simple pleasures

for elevenses, embedded
in the dulling amber
in which I reside, immobilised.

Flicker of skin, the shopping list
of mindless din, autopilot
can still mean a crash, you see,

the dummy in the car, again
that whiplash crack I treat
like cheap and ferocious therapy.

Oh, you could be such a darling
if you heave me from the wreckage,
away from redundant kicks –

say feather-edged words or punch me,
go on, that stubbly space above the jaw.
Either way, I’m petrified, maybe done for.