Omen at Fishponds Junction

Down the central reservation he strode,
unbothered by exhaust fumes or concrete, face encased in a leather mask.

I was idling in my ordered world
watching gridlock for signs of movement,
Lifeblood on my Micra’s stereo.

He stared at me, eyes covered
by stitched holes, mine shielded
by sunshade and plexiglass,
raised a single finger towards
the broiling, pyretic sky

and marched onwards, message delivered.
My spine became a melting glacier.
I opened the passenger door, left
my laptop and future on the hard shoulder
as traffic crawled to the bear pit.