ManicWorld Magazine

There is one busy road
in the sleepy beach town
that I call home.
The speed limit is sixty,
kilometres per hour for the sake
of any imperialists out there.
As good a speed as any
I suppose,
to get one where they’re going,
fast enough to feel
as though you aren’t standing still
yet slow enough for me
to see a face or two,
a dog hanging it’s jovial tongue
out of the back right window,
most commonly a surfboard
hugging a towel wrapped set of roof racks
or leaking from back seat to front.
I wonder where they’re going,
what they’re doing,
those people in the on coming lane.
I wonder what their lives are like,
if they enjoy their jobs,
what they had for breakfast.
A myriad of faces
my total opposite.
About the same distance from my house
in the other direction is the ocean
which makes me feel the same
as the one busy road
in town.