At 4 o'clock cars
clutter on the highway like abacus beads.
No one dares overtake.
Sunlight scrawls
through the dust and the fumes,
and the shadows slap at the edge of the grass.
Somewhere ahead, there's been an accident.
One by one, the engines
stop, the cars slump into dusk.
You wrench yourself from the road,
sift the dark trees
for diversion.
Sub-division houses-teacups
of colour from telivison stes,
steam rising from ovens
and showers
like mist across a swampland. The cricket sound
of voices and cutlery.
Only the children
stay outside, brusied with dirt
and school, squeezing play
from the tattered edges of the afternoon.
In the darkness, they grow
to be heroes, clash in the park
like cars on a highway,
pound out grudges
tight as steel. At last they slacken
home forgetfully.
As the wreck is cleared, rain trembles
acress the cars
and the charred, unbroken road