Dead North M1 7 p.m.

Braided like D.N.A.
we flicker in a northbound lane
twined like flax
woven with fertilizer lorries, flat-loads
tankers and porta-kabins
under digitised words
‘salt spreading’

Capital’s crawling artery
bunged northward creeps
each vein full of despatch
tall orders, whims and haste
precision marketing targets
the next truck reads

I couldn’t make this up.
We pass Reality
and then ‘Real Distribution Solutions’
before skidding past ‘Future Logistics’
there is another script being read here
The exhausts liming the banks with its breath.
We are all headed dead North

Scott’s hand on the ledger waits.