& this is how it ends?
Some grimy memorial near stop 14,
duct-taped elegies from school friends
plastic gerberas & bad poems wrapped
around traffic lights, bridge struts, power
poles - stagnant flower vase water trapped
under the false, industrial epidermis;
microbes benefit from mourning too.
A city of strangers eyeball the photocopied
formal picture, the original tucked away
inside some cheap branded furniture.
Ikea’s similarity to coffin material goes
unnoticed until this last improbable act.
A second’s miscalculation, Senna’s
God miscued too & like Henry he wore
a broken lance through the helmet visor.
Didn’t make it to the Eighth dimension
like Buckaroo Banzai, but then again
who does these days, dimensions being
so commercialised & did you notice
they’ve even removed the winner’s
floral garland from the Gran Prix circuit,
the leaves – an impediment to corporate
recognition. & can we take anything away
from Alisha’s & Aryton’s end - were they
sped on well to whatever they imagined
came after? They live now only in our cultural
memory, this road warrior & prom queen
undone by mechanical theories
& the media(n)s polished slick.