we drive past at twenty-miles-an-hour to try
and get a closer look the seats melting
in the chassis' furnace the heat slipping
inside reddening our faces not shifting
for another junction our own car close
and muggy with the smoke so often
in the worst of it I longed for someone
to rubberneck past the living room
take in the scene the way your anger scorched
the place left its residue for days until
another thing blazed up would it have been different
with a witness? someone to take the keys
from my finger walk me away tell me
I was good that they could see that I was trying
as they eased the can of petrol from my hand
Andrew McMillan is an award-winning poet and novelist. His fourth collection is forthcoming from Jonathan Cape next year.
Illustration by Chris Riddell
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