ANDREW MAYNE POETRY 
                                                                                                           


NEARLY LIFT OFF

To cut his sales pitch short,
I agree to the Full Works:
first, the slip-slop brushes
with lots of physical jerks.

Next, blinded by a sudsy spray,
I ease forward onto metal tracks –
half-way through, pelting showers
abating before the Super Wax.

Suddenly I am stationary –
the bonnet a diviner’s rod
with a joysticked upward tug;
I am a steam-lifted lid.

Look up for the opening circle –
spirals – through clearing skies at will...
But the pull takes hold again,
carries me through – until,

having tested my brakes
as a yellow, crack-framed sign
on a post instructs me to do,
I steer into the exit lane.

Drive safely. Please Come Again.

                                                South (44)
           
Poem 9
Home