Dominic Cummings prepares for his trip

For Mel

I saw you waving a safety helmet at camera’s and thought –

here is a man who cares about collisions to his children

here is a man who wore a seat belt to be safe on journeys.

I have a friend who is on a journey of depression right now

she has not seen her Mum in a care home for two months,

long ago when pregnant her waters kept her baby safe

for nine months her body was a care home built of DNA bricks

she raised them in the whole wide world of their tiny universe.

They would set the table to eat together attempting etiquettes.

When they had kids of their own, they got pissed up sometimes

and even then, a mother will give her last paracetamol to her kin.

 

I picture Dominic Cummings buying the Range Rover he journeyed in,

I imagine the order of his questions:

“Do you know who I am”?

“How many speakers does this baby have then”?

“Will you throw in the leather trim”?

“How fast does it go”?

“Oh yes I almost forgot, how many airbags does it have?”

“oh yes, I almost forgot, what is the safety rating of this bad boy”?

“Throw in the tinted windows and we’ve a deal”

“What kind of commission do you get for one of these”?

“Oh yes, you’re not a raging leftie are you”?

 

I saw a picture of two gloved hands joined of a son and his dying father.

It makes me think how a lifetime of closeness ends with forced distance,

and I want to write “Cunt” on the windscreen of a politician’s dustless car,

I want to write a haiku in the covid cremated ashes that cover politicians’ cars.

I want to do this very much but am respecting rules written in commoners’ blood.

I am listening to a Viking song of a warrior who asked to be buried with his treasure

This treasure was the white hair of his mother so he could join her in Valhalla,

he wanted to say he died a good death but what do we say when we get there?

We are all sons of warriors that invaded and Covid has no honour when it gets in.

road closed signage

Photo by Athena on Pexels.com

 

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