Since the clot came,
the Kafka in her bloodstream,
she says she’s not supposed to drive.
The train trolls, a pitch for the dogs,
who charge gaping at our tail, like trout to a fly.
“Look Adrian,” she recounts,
“we’re both married to the wrong people.”
She needs to take a year, she chirps,
to forget about Adrian and the clot,
"life is too short," she cries,
whilst the band leader beats out on the tracks:
life is life is life is long.