Chris Pickering

The hands that opened the case last night to sell me a CD are the hands picking away at the gentle guitar that floods the car this morning, and the humble voice from the speakers is the voice that sounded surprised and said thank you. I am insulated from the exhuast, from the rumble, from other people's hurry. I can't feel the road beneath the wheels. There's the faintest trace of red wine still on my lips. The dams glisten tantalisingly through the haze, and I could drive forever.