“Angry German dents car with giant sausage” – The Times

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Whose car is it ? Is it his ? Or does it belong to someone else ?
A brother who has cheated him out of an inheritance ?
A mistress who left him for a shorter person ?
Does it have a sausage on the roof rack ?
Or painted on the door ?
Does he see the sausage as a crude slur on the German people ?

Or is it his sausage ?
It is a giant sausage. How big could it be ?
It must be very hard to dent a car.
Is there a possible ambiguity in the word “ sausage” ?
An innuendo ?
Was the man particularly muscular ? Or the devotee
of some dangerous martial art ?

Or is he angry, not with the car
but with the sausage ?
Did he really intend to buy 250 grams of cheese, but had a momentary blackout, and found himself clutching the giant sausage as he stepped out into the street ?

Or perhaps, deep down, he hates the taste of sausage
but dare not reveal his aversion
as he is German.

That would be the wurst of all possible worlds.

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Bus Pass

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A passport to purgatory
with no request stops
and one final destination.

Blank eyed, killer cold,
I look just like some shifty cove
of interest to the police-
a drug baron or someone who
does dreadful things to cats.

I place my effigy face down,
wait for the electronic ping
which says I am still me,
then find a seat.

The bus, packed full
as a milkman’s crate
with silver tops,
is loud with chat.

“These car wash people are all Russian”
“They’ll soon get finished then.”
“Isn’t it funny – you often find
something you haven’t lost.”

Museum Street. The conversation’s stilled.
We shuffle off, take up our own affairs –
optician, dentist, hospital for tests-
all necessary measures for survival.
That way we can eke out a few more years
but still

the journey matters more than the arrival.