Car (October)

The new car has an overhead compartment to place your spectacles. The bonnet disappears so all you see is road. You drop into the seat contours. It’s a dream to drive, with a township of lights for dashboard. Gleaming exteriors and supple surfaces make you just like all the rest. The old car has already had one change of numberplates. The carpet is thin, even the glass seems thin. It’s a glovebox of receipts and old barley sugar. The street directory has lost its way. Come October, you kick a tyre remembering tours. It’s missing the sentiment of a horse.