Almost taste the flavour

by Ivan Donn Carswell

It was a fat-tyred 4WD utility hard back,
the sort of ute you’d expect a contractor
to drive, except it was plastered with tacky
stickers, and no genuine subby does that.
It snailed down the Range at 30KmH, girl-like,
braking every bend, the donkey driver
sending bad karma, wandering double white
lines again and again. It was less distressing than
a burning irritation; my imagination, or have
I mellowed some – a pedant doing penance
paid in trailing time, a wisdom wasted as I
beamed him potent pictures of my mental boot
buried tersely in his ample arse; that thought
at least replaced the other evil thoughts I fasted on.
But I bought myself some charity and gave
the dork his space, and he excelled himself, increased
his snail-like pace and broke the Law by speeding
through restricted zones besides the school. No doubt
the man’s a fool who’ll suffer for his stupid act,
though not today. He had his sway with indolence,
he had his day of insolence; I’m proud I kept my peace
and waited in the queue bemused to let good fortune
favour me. Hell, I almost taste the flavour

Last updated May 02, 2015