Friday, 18 January 2013


I have two sons;
two hands, two feet,
engaged in driving
of my car
and, when the starter motor jammed,
I used each hand and foot
- and teenage boy – for hard pushing;
crunching a little bump-start.

The engine fired and a few of us
had cranked a change, a difference,
but, later, when that car was canned,
my sons grew quiet and sad
(we drove it thirteen years)
and now we gaze alone, askance,
standing near a box-cart, shaking hands,
nostalgic, aching, flattened; true at last.

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