The Long Way Round

He nudges down through second,
letting it hang in neutral
as the junction coasts up
to meet him, to softly dock,
so there’s a few beats free
for scanning the bookie’s window as it passes
to the corner, where his death’s been loitering,
ready to snatch the wheel, twist,
launching the car to hop
skew-whiff across the cycle-lane
and up the kerb; one last small fling
before it nuzzles in along the verge,
a clumsy feeder coughing to a stop.

But Dad, not one to leave a job undone,
keeps on, along the slow route back
through the rear-view mirror, dwindling
nine years now down moonless lanes
beyond the town’s last lights
and his usual turn for home,
where I’m still stalled and waiting,
clock-watching, wanting to know
what kind of bloody time he thinks this is.

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from Barry (Steve's brother)