The A1* is

A stretch of strangers
On a tattooed tongue
Overtaking then overtaken
By buses and trucks,
Swallowed and spat.

We share much common ground,
The tread of tyres on the ground — 
Driving — it comes with camaraderie,
Trying to arrive despite
The hypnotism of waves of blades

Of golden grass and dabs of thorn trees.
The glare of the sun waters
The road in a mirage
To the weary eyed driver. He sees
The skid marks bleed black

Before the body parts splat
To the tune of dancing glass.
Shattered. Wrecked
Cars rust where cattle graze.
The daydreamer awakes

From his worst nightmare
On this road that rarely bends.
A car wreck rests just off his lane,
Within in his line of vision. “Hell,”
He thinks, “It is a drift away.”

*The A1 is a highway that runs through Botswana but it is also known for fatal car accidents.

First published in The Kalahari Review