Flying to Drumore

It was a beast of a thing
my Dad's old car.
All wheels and engine
but small inside.
A tardis in reverse
with red brown leather seats
that stank of woodless pine and sweaty knees.

When we left the Little Chef
a rumble turned into a roar.
Flying to Drumore one hump at a time
in the goony bird express.
Seven hills, passing on single tracks
A last bridge seen too late
and flight both longer and less graceful
than the rest

The bubbling spring of coke welled up within
Spewing out geyser streams as I yelled stop!
My Father's Brylcreamed hair slicked back
and suddenly immersed
in the former contents of my sugar loaded mouth.






-------------------------
almost a true story,
I missed his head.