Passing Cars : Poem & Process

Poem & Process is an ongoing series: one poem, and reflections on writing it.

Passing Cars (28 April 2020)

Making a starfish of her fingers
a woman lifts her hand
from its grip on her steering wheel
‘thank you'
it says.

That easy gesture
is so normal
it’s like she’s slapped me.

A smile crashes through her windscreen
as our cars pass each other
real near.

It’s the closest I’ve felt
to a stranger
for weeks.

She leaves me
gunning the engine
in the middle
of the road.

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As the light of Spring arrives, I’ve been thinking about the weirdness that was lockdown 2020. The gloriously warm sunshine showed up early that year, a kindly balm on the anxiety and fear running through our systems. Five years have gone by, somehow. So recent, and yet ages ago: that old trickster, Time, playing around with us.

Back then, in the recent long-ago, I was writing a poem every day. This one jumped out from my files as I was looking through them for this Substack - my 2025 attempt at regular creative output.

Some things never change, including the tension I feel between creative discipline (a Substack every week? Year right - good luck with that, Dan!) and just making when I feel like it (but Dan, what about committing to your artform properly?!). Eesh.

Looking back, I’m really pleased that I committed to my daily poem project - even though at times I wanted to drop it entirely. Perhaps that’s the real mindset to try to get into: my future self will be glad the Dan of today did the thing. What a gift: thank you Dan of now, for spending the extra time writing this for Dan of future to be proud of.

I can recollect the moment this poem captures - or perhaps the poem has preserved a form of that memory, distorting it like a specimen in a pickle jar. I remember that the image of a starfish for the driver’s fingers rippling open in acknowledgement was a sudden and strong thought - as was the connection, through our windscreens.

I wonder what that time of was like for you?