‘Service Station’, Leila Dickinson

Service Station

Maybe you could buy me a neck cushion,
an overpriced coffee
or a Krispy Kreme from WHSmith.
You could laugh at me in baggy on-the-road
clothes, glorified pjs you might say.
Perhaps you’d wait for me outside the loos and we’d moan
about how they need a good clean.
We might discuss how strange it is to
have gambling stations here.
If I wasn’t a nervous driver
if you didn’t hate long journeys
if I could change lanes without being beeped
and we could chat like we once did,
play road-games
“Would you rather be eaten alive by a crocodile or vulture? Vultures pick out their prey’s
eyes”
you’d tell me.

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