there is a ghost hitchiker in my rear vision
mirror/ do i pick him up?/ once i would have/
say a few years back/ my naivety protected me
against intruders/ now i drive past belangalo
state forest/ there are ghosts on the outskirts
& within the structures/ apparitions that don't
make the grade/ we need to police them/ they
don't own a car/ they don't catch a plane or a
train or a bus/ they don't ride a pushbike/ don't
live in a house/ instead they become transparent
hold out a thumb for us/ appear on the edge of
pine forests & merge into highway traffic/ like
backpackers that disappear into car boots/
offenders that infiltrate this unsteady society
swaying on its baldy tyres/ so they police the
highways by force/ it must all run like clock-
work but the steering is loose/ we are prone to
weirdness to ghosts/ the windscreen is full of
bullet holes/ society is shot to pieces & to my
right belangalo flourishes/ trees grow naturally
higher like the murder rate/ nourished from
the ground up