You will learn
to wind your car window down one day
and stick your head out like an uncastrated dog,
your tongue tasting escape.
I will be fourteen years old again,
leaning into your shout for directions.
I will point forward and explain
the number of roundabouts
and you will spray vodka into my eyes
from a water pistol as your mates speed away
I will be a boring stranger,
my short trousers and stained fleece
torn apart by your teeth,
opinions thrown on country lanes
I am seventy-two years old,
helping you check your tyre pressure,
teaching you how to top up your oil.
Your footwell is stuffed
with vegetarian sausage roll packets
and a tote bag of animal biscuits
for your son. You wind your window down,
tell me not to wait in the rain
to wave you off with lips I already miss
on my cheeks.