Our sun-cankered, frost-lacerated old bomb
has usurped a spot beside a Milky Way of faces.
Fingers tapping on the dash, I watch
pigeons filibuster on ledges outside floors
lit by cleaners; stare at the back of my hand
charting middle age’s sargassos; and finally you,
calling some last instructions
like streamers at a ship’s departure,
cross to lean reluctantly by the door.
All the adages I should have draped over your slender neck
— but didn’t, for fear they would hang so heavily —
are reduced to this: “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!”
Cordite, February 2015