by Parker Smith
He keeps an eye on the swatch of sun
smearing along the wall
outside his car. Gombrich drives
like a real bastard: cajoles
the van in front, taps brakes
like a Morse code pejorative
at the motorcycle behind.
A wreck at this speed would be
a free fall from a thousand feet.
Gombrich is not a bastard. He
does not know Morse code, so,
why the white knuckles,
Gombrich? You know the road is filled
with lots of Gombriches
reeling and teeming with the same
vacancies as you, Gombrich.
Allow them room. This is not
a time to stew over distances.
The only gulf you know won’t let
you fall into it, so slow
down, before you hurt someone.
