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Throttle Butterfly

 

A head rush whenever I stand
or rise too quickly from bed.

 

A nagging light on a dashboard
flashing that Limp Home Mode has been activated.
Stop.
Restart the engine.
The hazard resets itself
only to reappear a hundred yards down the road.
A frustrated driver
hitting the wheel when the "clear" button doesn't wipe it.
Late.
Needing the power the car won't give him
limping home.
Slow acceleration.
Tough braking.
Tense steering.
No drive.
No cruise control.
Slow acceleration.
He takes her to the garage and they change some parts, patch it up.

 

Two weeks later he's back,
the sign's still popping up on the dashboard.
Still with slow acceleration.
The mechanic shrugs
says
"it might be easier to buy a new car".
The driver purses his lips
shakes his head.
That won't do
he's too fond.
The mechanic rolls his eyes
fits a new engine instead.

 

She's good as new.

 

 

 

 

In the Heart of the Storm

 

He had grey eyes
thunderous orbs
as though stolen directly out their sockets from Thor -
not just for their stormy quality
but for their juxtaposition.
These were not the eyes of the boy's reserved, soothing, countenance,
these eyes were weathered,
roughed up,
eroded,
and behind the shuddering slate greys
there lay a hint of mercury.
Poisonous, but soft,
shifting,
the homesickness of a displaced soul,
the lost longing of
a marble pebble smashed in two on a cement car park,
dropped from the hand of a child
rushing for shelter from the coming storm.
His eyes presented thunder for joy,
a thunder so dense
the neighbours hid in their beds from it,
the loneliest thunder
cracking apart the sky
in the search for a single upward glance of admiration
from a brave friend.

 

 

Mirrors

 

Sitting at the bottom of the stairs in my parents' house
Staring at my hands through three thick inches of darkness
I saw dishwasher lights reflected off the glass covers of paintings on the wall
And all your habits reflected in my adoption or avoidance of them