Straight-backed, I sit in silence
but for the R3.30 in five cent pieces
rattling in my ashtray
and the wind whistling through the crack in my window.
My hands taut on the steering wheel
as I swerve from pothole, sheep, pothole, warthog, pedestrian, pothole.

I keep my eyes fixed on the road
but my mind drifts to prayers said untruthfully,
lies told unwillingly,
duties shirked unashamedly,
in between snippets of songs playing in my head
that I refrain from singing for her sake.

Occasionally I look at her –
eyes closed and peaceful –
and wonder what is happening in her head.
But then I hit a pothole
and am jerked from my reverie
to concentrate again on pothole, goat, pothole, pedestrian, pothole.