So Terry downloaded his entire personality into a car.
That was his plan, and that was what he did.
The car was a high-quality, new car - the best
he could afford. Well, he reasoned,
if I'm going to be a car for the rest of my life,
I may as well do it with a bit of panache.
So Terry was a car and he drove about as a car,
mostly doing what he normally did, occasionally
appearing on talk shows, where hosts asked him
what it was like being a car,
genially patting his bonnet, which he found patronising,
but let slide. After all, it was easy to hide
his irritation, because he was a car.
At night, he nuzzled up against his old double-bed
and dreamt odd, slanted dreams, where oil paintings
came to life, and pebbles rolled uphill.