On still nights, the sound 
of the motorway is a constant 
companion. It roars and whooshes, 
snarls and howls. 

The white noise of black radials 
on dark asphalt washes over me. 
Like the Scirocco, with its sandy payload, 
it erodes thoughts and expositions. 

Though sound is only quasiparticles, 
insubstantial phonons, 
every stream of traffic churns out 
terrible, tangible toxins. 

Particulates. Carcinogenic compounds. 
Can they travel on longitudinal waves? 
Could they assault me where I lie? 
My mind is a worrier. It won’t be assuaged. 

Counting sheep never worked. 
Instead, I count cars, vans, lorries. 
And wonder about their drivers. 
Consider their relationships with sleep. 

Bio: David J Kelly