The bleb lurched, a startled shake of realization avoided.
Rotund time slipped a giggled hand over face whose digits touched the floor.
It is tarmac and cheese for lunch again.
Yes, that thought of paving intended to smooth and simplify
Clumps clumsy clinging knots of gravels roll spent neglected
To the sides of the thinning road.
Smooth idyll of back seat play and rolling signs
Streams to a halt fighting to control the wheel
Ripped by the intrusion of dirt, an untravelling rock—a hole.
The wrinkle of every careen duly noted in rows of suddenly attentive eyes
Is it left? Is it right? Is it over the side?
Whatever the turn, your hands are seen transcending the story in reality.
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