I am out of wiper fluid and a bird just shat on my windscreen

Poets die for loving the little things 

Like how the bird shit on my windscreen is shaped like Iceland

Or how the sky is cloaked in thunderstorm shimmer

But there is still bird shit on my windscreen 

And I am still out of wiper fluid

Still On the A48 back home 

The rain is spitting like a toddler 

Who has just been served boiled spinach

I turn my wipers on 

In a frantic display of desperation

I let Jesus take the wheel

And Jesus smears the bird shit into a halo across the glass

Maybe this isn't so bad

But it will take a chisel to dislodge this island

And I can't be fucked to do it.