This know-all, kill-all countryman,
mud-spattered dog and gun, drove
one-armed with his belly in his lap,
the pick-up cutting corners and regularly
veering across the road. (It has long been
accepted that human beings cease to be
human once behind the wheel of a vehicle,
become but another cretinous part
of the machine.) This grunt and moan countryman,
sour-faced wouldn't be told, knew all about here,
every dip and bend; but not that another, like him,
was on that same road that day and heading
his way. The pair became a joint funeral notice
sellotaped to the usual village lamp-posts.
Sam Smith is editor of The Journal (once 'of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry'). Author of several novels and collections of poetry - samsmithbooks.weebly.com - he presently lives in Blaengarw, South Wales, and blogs at thesamsmithcom.wordpress.com