Empty Highway Home
By JamesF
- 161 reads
The road is clear, but for the weather
lashing down liquid intermittently, wipers
doing overtime at midnight, after a John Mayall
gig in Stoke, driving home to Nottingham.
I am afraid of the dark, blank road,
driving rain blotting out the white markings,
guiding forces blurred, and no companions
to keep me company, solitary, moving at speed.
Holding on to music, Black Sabbath belting
another riff on the CD player, I figure if
control escapes me I will go out with a bang
of Wardy’s drums and Iomi’s crashing guitar.
Focussing on Ozzy’s underrated often lyrics,
“I love you still” fits the bill, then memories
of my ex overtaken by 85 year old Mayall’s strong
figure, how he told us about being 25 years sober.
A drink would be fitting, after surviving this ordeal,
a former lover and noted purveyor of blues competing
with thoughts of death on this dead road, though
it’s after one when I park, and the wet dark forbidding.
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