Not My Business
I'd been tired, under the weather,
but the ansaphone kept screaming:
One more sick note, mister, and your finished. Fired I thumbed a lift to where the car was park.
A 1992 Elegent. It was hired.
I picked him up in Vinewood.
He was following the sun from west to east,
with just a toothbrush and the good earth for a bed. The truth,
he said, was blowin' in the wind,
or round the next bend
I let him have it,
on the top road out of Richman,
One on the head, then six times with the krooklok in the face,
and didn't even swereve.
I dropped it into third
and leant across.
to let him out. I saw him in the mirror,
bouncing of the kerb, then disappearing down the verge.
We were the same age, if givin a week.
He'd said he liked the breeze
to run his fingers
through his hair.
It was twelve noon.
The outlook for the day was fair. Stitch that, I remember thinking,
you can walk from there.
Just a short story if you would call it that 
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