Our sun-cankered, frost-lacerated old bomb

has usurped a spot beside a Milky Way of faces.

Fingers tapping on the dash, I stare up at pigeons

filibustering on ledges outside floors lit

by cleaners; at the back of my hand

charting middle age’s sargassos; and you,

calling some last instructions

like streamers at a ship’s departure

as you cross to lean reluctantly on the door.

Would adages I should have draped over

your slender neck have hung so heavily? “How will you find me

in the dark if all your friends have left the party?”

Your laughter: “Dad, I’d recognise those headlights anywhere!”