Twelve From Home
Just an ordinary day it was.
As it always is.
The road was empty so the only dust was behind me.
Can’t remember skipping track but the corner arrived quickly.
If I tried to turn, I’d already missed my cue,
so lamenting that ditches aren’t lined with pillows like
the ones my Nan used to have for her back,
or a ball pit in pre-school poster paint hues,
I flinched as the world dropped sixty degrees.
Whilst my legs snapped against the steering wheel,
I winced as I digested ribs without chewing,
an old oak appeared to share my pain.
The seat belt turned on me as I rolled.
Half-decapitated, something in the distance
reminded me of France,
whilst the windscreen falling out allowed me to get
fleeting, reprieving whiffs of heather.
Strangely impressed by the wrestle between meadow and cloud –
neither was on top for long –
one final rut sent me soaring through a coral sky.
Laughably landing right way up,
I pictured you,
and the daughter we hadn’t yet had,
before slipping away into a dream of Christmas years ago.
Arron Palmer is an economist whose body is twenty-two years old and lives in Leicester but whose mind is approaching forty-five and is currently unable to be located. He is working towards publishing his first collection February Belle & Other Short-Lived Poems, and his work can be found online at apalmerpoetry.