It's rush hour on the M25
and         forty-two years ago I'd want to be a cowboy
               that, or a policeman.

Then came those evenings with the tobacco strewn desk
               with that flexi-lamp placed
               a spotlight on that little green lump.
Igniting and billowing over the sound of comfort
               stinking plumes out my bedroom window.

I had plans. Plans don't work
               remember the VW campervan
               that we never did get hold of?
               Or that pet snake named Poncho
               that only existed behind cerebral framework.

Cultivating.

Now it's Terry Wogan, aging in the mornings.
Zane Lowe, gloating in the evenings.
               Yes, I did email the memos.
               Yes, I'll fax them tomorrow.
               Yes, I'll go to the nativity play.
I never got a tear in my eye at the short little me being Joseph.

I was always the shepherd.

Traffic jam. Horns honking.
Dukes of Hazard.

Typical British weather
               never a whimper for the news
               or a surprise at the rise in knife crime.
I switch it to static
               - the dilemma between radio stations.

Remember:
Laughing in a hazy dorm,
engulfed with clouds of laughter                  "the giggles"
                and the familiar banter in Withnail and I.
The best days of my life.

I press a cigarette lighter into my wrist.
I can't flinch.

Remembering Jeremy Clarkson and how I'm missing Top Gear.
Thinking: Air bags inflating.

Oh, shit, I left the laptop at work.

A spiderweb of youth. Complex and easily destroyed.
Just like the paintwork on this piece of shit auto.
Crashing. The smell of rubber.
                It stings a bit.
The white-red pain in my temple.
My nostrils being deceptive.

There's a bonfire 'neath the glove box.
and a reflection of me pounding fists against the window.
Things are melting off the floor.

Reverse.

The smoke, rising,
Just like the old day's sat in Dave's car,
But nauseating.

Relief. Domino Express.
Something? It's school.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
I laugh.
       Breakfast? I skipped it.
Like the primary school play,
all eyes are on me.

This time, I remember to wear a seatbelt.