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!”
1 February 2015