Night Drive

Tonight’s a Monet blur of red and amber:
light rain, roadworks, these haphazard streets.
I’m chasing the last decade through its suburbs.
The sky is folding in, and I’m a mess
of aimless introspection. The deejay plays
the inside of my mind in the late nineties
on FM radio; galactic rhythms
drum the mood. I’m driving, without a plan,
in accident’s back-alleys. On Anzac bridge
(my favourite of the pair — it’s controversial)
I turn towards your house, more out of habit
than desire; then catch myself. I know that road,
in darkness and in light: its signposts screech
of danger, unfinished surfaces, dead ends.