Racing off into the solitude
Years before I had learned
To compose poems in the car
Or at least years before I had
Recorded poetry in the car
Whilst I was driving
That solitary metal box
With four doors
Six windows
Square or rectangular
Which, on my eighteenth
Birthday I had kitted out
With hi-fi set ups
Costing just beyond what
I could comfortably afford
For if one is going to be alone
Didn’t one ought, indeed, to have
A top-notch, impressive, sound system
How else might
The sorrowful songs of loneliness
Seep through the silence
