Morning (Accelerated Shot)
Get up, brush teeth, wash face, drink tea, wear

clothes, shoes.                                                  Wait

until the need                          to take three steps

as two.      In the driver’s seat,                   pause.

There’s dust       on the windscreen              and

the asphalt road           beckons,              widens.
Morning (Slow Motion)
The road keeps widening                                 but

never feels                                             quite wide.

In ordered rows,             cars move,           crawl,

stop                    at red lights, at forked roads, at

zebra crossings.                                               Stop,

wait,                            time is                      waiting,

tired               of waiting.              It abandons me

leaps over                     cars, sprints             away.

It leaves a trail                of beaded perspiration,

glistening             at the tip of                  my nose.
Evening (Accelerated Shot)
To write,          to look at the clock,        to write,

to pack up,       to look at the clock,   to pack up.

To walk            to the lift                       to press G.

Down the stairs,                       behind the wheel,

another half–hour to                                    home.
Evening (Slow Motion)
The road keeps widening                                 but

never feels                                             quite wide.

In ordered rows,              cars move,          crawl.

Those on the road shoulder                           stop.

Those in a chain collision                               stop.

Those commanded               by the traffic police

stop.                                Always stopping, always

waiting,                     time is                       waiting,

tired              of waiting.               It abandons me

leaps over                     cars, sprints              away.