Twenty-First Century Charioteer.

You've seen her with her split-blond hair,
navy power suit, purple-blue blouse.
You've seen her with the crooked hand she presses
to her razor-thin mobile
(thinner than sympathy)
or with the crooked hand
clammed to the steering-wheel top.
Sitting non-target,
sitting shop dummy,
new Ben Hur of the
open-top, black sports convertible.

The knives in her wheel trim rotate viciously,
even at 5 mph.
The engine and aircon, as well as other guns
are all blazing at a standstill.
Twenty First Century Charioteer likes to drive
round Port Sunlight for effect,
parks up for two minutes here,
five minutes there,
wiper blades on double-time
while her chirrups are delivered to the
razor-thin mobile.
Twenty-First Century charioteer
likes to rip up the M62
then back down to Cheshire Oaks
(all that charioteering
whets the appetite).

Jam Today

Personal bubbles
are blister-packed along every pavement.
The heat of the sun glints furiously
on their bonnets and boots.
Now, along red-blooded motorways,
a billion corpuscles are stringing themselves out,
or bunching up.
At five, at fall of day, an endless stream of fag-ends
stretches up The Thelwall Viaduct.
Glittering hard, diamonds stream down it .
Beauty traduced.
Jam yesterday,
jam today,
jam tomorrow.