The Journey

Standard

My recovery is a car.
The sun bounces of its perfect exterior.
A dangling tree, carefully picked,
Scents it.
The windscreen is invisible,
The road is clear;
An illusion, really.
My hands are on the wheel,
10 to 2.
My foot, ankle tensed,
Perfectly positioned.
Mirrors arranged just so.
We are ready to go.
Poised.
Except –
I am not sure
Whether it is the key
Or my hand
That does not work,
That will not turn.
Either way,
We’re not going
anywhere.

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