We’ve stopped,
and our aching bodies function again,
after three hours in hyperspace.
Place your feet on martian
aggregate. Bright white walls,
candy coloured cuddly brand
logos, shining in a radioactive
post apocalyptic flicker.
The foyer, home to sedated
loney cheeseplants living
next a faux-oasis in a stasis
of activity. Baby changing
facilities, sterile loo blocks,
faint wafts of coffee blending
with strangers urine and diesel.
Our seat is plastic as we tear
open our plastic prey from
their cartons.
Brown watery coffee,
depressed freshly
prepared sandwiches from
an industrial estate off the M5.
Our eyes never meet as I
glance at the cars outside.
The passive audience of a
Theatre of motion.
Stage left.
Stage right.
Travelling to that
same inevitable destination.
Services (Gordano)
Published October 28, 2009 Poetry , Prosody , creative writing , poem , verse 1 CommentTags: poem, creative writing, Poetry, creative, writing, verse, Prosody, coffee, motorway, station, service, gordano, moto, welcomebreak, breakfast, petrol
I also recently stopped at Gordano service station late at night on the way back from a gig. This poem sums up the experience completely! I especially like the
‘Our seat is plastic as we tear
open our plastic prey from
their cartons’
They are such weird artificial places, like they’ve just grown up from the ground, but no-one quite knows how they got there….
I like the wedding ring poem too. sad, but beautiful.
see you soon!
xxx