The Joyrider's Tale (Poetry)

For kids ’round here there’s nothing much to do
and we got kind of bored just hanging out,
this Jag was parked — a deep, metallic blue —
the block was empty, no one else about.

We only meant to borrow it awhile —
a blast along the dual carriageway
to give our street cred some degree of style
and liven up a real dull Saturday.

The door was open, keys swung from the dash;
we bundled in, the four of us, and cheered
as Gary revved the engine, drowned the clash
of clumsily engaged, uncertain gears.

The car leapt forward like a startled cat,
then settled to a purr, the needle climbed,
passed eighty-something somewhere on the flat
but double bends loomed, ominous and blind.

The van came out of nowhere — Gary swerved
too late — the impact rolled us off the road,
we hit a tree and witnesses observed
the other driver’s petrol tank explode.

JOYRIDE ENDS IN TRAGEDY — TWO DEAD
and everything was changed from that day on —
the scene repeats itself inside my head,
guilt’s like a fever — never really gone.