The Hosepipe

five litres. enough to get me there, and enough left for after.

the piss has already gone cold on my jeans, stinking, my legs shaking, and I tell myself it’s the winter doing it.

black tobacco, the hard stench of it up my nose, the last few cigarettes, throat already raw. I crumple the packet. turn the key. Classic FM comes on — the 1812, all those cannons going off in a Vauxhall in a field.

windows up. gear lever in neutral. the gap between the hose and the frame stuffed with a green jumper, the one she never liked. half jack of vodka empty on the floor mat. cigarettes gone.

I blow smoke rings at the dashboard and watch them bounce and come apart. the engine ticking over nice and steady, twelve hundred revs, the hard road to a farmer’s field, alone, out of sight.

ninety-five octane,
dizziness and confusion,
family photos.