Frisson Poem by Brian Dodds

A huge dark cloud squats on Tipton,
a giant panda eye rimmed brightly
with zinc-oxide edges, where elsewhere
someone enjoys late evening sun. Suddenly
the wind hisses through leaves on roadside trees,

rain begins to spatter my bald head. The stench
of diesel abates as the squall develops, whips
junk-food litter into frantic vortices; a double-decker
slipstream flaps my jacket; and somewhere,
I sense, somebody is walking roughly on my grave.