in a bust-up Morris
that barely pushes 60
on a downhill stretch
and there's an eye in the star
of a plane in the sky
that rises out of Birminham
on a November night
Though I'm tortured by my back
as though my brittle spine has cracked
into a dozen jagged pieces
and my hands are white against the wheel
while the orange sodium lights
explode in their delight
of the knowledge of the pain
they know I feel.
But it's really not so bad
because there's consolation to be had
in the thought that there's a bottle full of rum
and tobacco, Java black,
waiting for me on a shelf somewhere in Brum.
Good old Brum.