Tracks

You drove gold, up to and over my tired red house,
then pulled out and away into a green night sky.
Except – I have a flat, not a house, and you came once,
but the roof makes the building look like a birdbox.
It is cosy, like there are not a hundred other holes
full of people I don't know who screech and fry onions.
I see you vanish over and over and over that hill,
past the pale graffiti rose on some quiet warehouse.
Your visit brought the little black cat out of hiding,
and at night she screeches, maybe fighting the fox.
You are mountains away now, poised at a piano,
and I fumble alone at my guitar strings, give up easily.
I have no car, am too far to keep our tracks aligned.
I pray you keep some place for me, come autumn.