Get Your Kicks on the B1014

He comes most nights — I hear his car pull up
Outside and catch the glancing blur of lights
Through curtains. Drinking Nescafe, we watch
The Epilogue, laugh at the priest, then think
Where to drive that night — we catalogue
The usual suggestions and arrive
At the same decision as usual.
The road lies straight, lamps stream like amber flames
Shot down the wind as we accelerate;
Our talk of girls and cars, our journey’s end
The all-night filling station’s ROBO-SERVE
Coffee machine. That’s it — we talk until
We’re bored and then drive back. It’s a routine
Which kills night after night, yet always when
We move, cabined, through empty streets, the half-
Light seems loaded with strange drama and
We thunder down an apprehensive road.