& this is how it ends?

Some grimy memorial near stop 14,

duct-taped elegies from school friends

plastic gerberas & bad poems wrapped

around traffic lights, bridge struts, power

poles - stagnant flower vase water trapped

under the false, industrial epidermis;

microbes benefit from mourning too.

A city of strangers eyeball the photocopied

formal picture, the original tucked away

inside some cheap branded furniture.

Ikea’s similarity to coffin material goes

unnoticed until this last improbable act.

A second’s miscalculation, Senna’s

God miscued too & like Henry he wore

a broken lance through the helmet visor.

Didn’t make it to the Eighth dimension

like Buckaroo Banzai, but then again

who does these days, dimensions being

so commercialised & did you notice

they’ve even removed the winner’s

floral garland from the Gran Prix circuit,

the leaves – an impediment to corporate

recognition. & can we take anything away

from Alisha’s & Aryton’s end - were they

sped on well to whatever they imagined

came after? They live now only in our cultural

memory, this road warrior & prom queen

undone by mechanical theories

& the media(n)s polished slick.