GOING, GOING, GONE Poem by Alfred Schaffer

V

‘What's the hurry?' Someone's been too clever for us, someone
who knows this route like the back of his hand. There's music in this -
helicopters above the motorway, people panicking, flashing lights,
the cold-blooded score-settling in broad daylight, the blood-stained back seat.
Gnashing of teeth, think about anything just to stay awake.
The many taillights twirl a wheel before your eyes,

who belonged to who, which of us has won? Your bare back
this morning, the blankets kicked aside. Outside the grass was being mown.
Sure you're alright, you ought to ask me now, soothingly,
with a well-meant smile that makes me long for a bed,
for a goodnight story. Turn those glaring searchlights off,
shut the door. Your jaws agape. No hand before your eyes.