“Are we there yet?”
Like on a road trip down south;
Not much scope for “I spy with my little eye…”
70 plus, on the open road,
Fields full of yellow flowers,
Sweating in the back seat, inhaling smoke.
Nowadays, nobody starts with,
“Something beginning with Y?”
“Are we there yet?”
From the radio. It’s not the 1970’s, rubbish stacked high,
Dad’s got a stash of petrol in the garage
Next to the sardines. No.
There are no sardines,
Lined up like soldiers
In makeshift shelters,
In lean-to larders.
There is no petrol; no Gerry can,
No Swiss army knife that can do everything.
“Are we there yet?”
Father tutting fly tipping
masonry mercenaries on the back road. No.
“We’re nearly there.” When
Are we there yet?
Is just around the corner.
It’s just over the next hill.
It will all be over by Christmas
With a red flowering sunrise,
Mushrooming.
4/2020
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