Whiplash

Whiplash

It came at the bite of a turn, a sudden lift of a U‑turn
out of the heat‑spun lane of Bloomsbury, a pulse‑crack
through chrome and glass, the shuffle of furs in an iron‑bound garage.

The car—slicked with a dash of black‑tire polish—spun,
sustained a flat‑back, and in a single breath of London wind,
werd to a knotted knot. The back of a sleepy commuter,
himself frozen in a commentary on the National Game,
was flung forward like an errant dart in a pub‑tableau.

Whiplash is a swear in the tongue of the UK:
“this thing’s a poky thing, a proper back‑bender.”
It shows up when you expect a steady line and a polite stop,
yet life, with its missing timetables, throws a kei‑bolt
— a swift, merciless teeter‑toss that sighs like a train’s brake.

The ooh‑and‑a‑ah of the emergency officer,
his hat tucked on a neatly‑neatened head,
tries to organise a team:
“call the ambulance on the desk, administer a stretch,
and don't let the fiver of discomfort become a nightmare.”

Cry a blue‑sky, dear: a throbbing pulse of hunger for a quick
pain‑killer, a cheery peppermint like a sachet of clotted‑cream in a tea‑cup.
Lure yourself toward the nurses, the green‑sheeted, Ruby‑rimmed stethoscope,
and sing “don't worry‑about-the-traffic” as if the city, all her colour,
could still be a gentle grazed stream.

No gymnastic move in any training manual has a licence for whiplash.
May your belt remain snug, your foot on the pedal,
and may the next car to pass you on Westway be as subtle
as a lullaby delivered in a distant nursery of an office building’s
down‑stairs, HVAC‑muffled lull.

Whiplash remains a paradox, a sickness that starts the journey
and forces the heart to remember the courtesy of a gentle pull,
as we all do in the never‑ending dance of the tube and the bus.