Guardian Angel

Guardian Angel

Not too late! I know the drill!
the car door creaks.

Yeah! Got it! I’ll pick up the children’s milk!
the driver’s seat squeals.

Right! Huh? What?
the engine roars.

Milk … oh, right got it – for the kids!
the tyres screech.

Clap-clap
(Are the CV joints gone?)
Clap-clap
(Did I pop a Dunlop?)
Clap-clap
(Screw it; put on some tunes)

Dusk’s fading fast,
but the sun’s still on HIGH.
Wiping away sweat from my brow,
a face in the rearview
catches my eye.

Clap-clap

A woman sucking on a lollipop,
clapping her hands
to the beat of the Beta Band.

Clap.

She smacks her lips frowns,
adjusting the barbed wire wreath
she wears like a crown.

I don’t jerk at the wheel,
if you must know;
a wave of calm comes over me
when I pull over
to the side of the road.

Her hair is thick;
an orange afro in the dust cloud
in the rearview
that blocks out the setting sun;
a wobbly halo over her head.

Her breath’s cherry-sweet,
her mascara smeared
like dried clots of blood
that brightens
her silver-feathered smile.

Her hand shoots past my ear,
her nails, like daggers of old,
decorated with intricate patterns;
they’re chipped and cold.

She points at a sign in the road,
and, before I can ask,
she has an answer:
‘Drop me at the club.
I’m heaven’s finest dancer.’

I drop her off at Devil’s Tail,
my hands shaking,
my face a lighter shade
of Caucasian pale.

She gets out and slams the door;
I roll down the window,
and she slips me a note
(her hands as soft as silk):

Don’t forget the children’s milk.

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