Car Park


A sleep-nest of cars
like a motionless barn
filled with robot horses
plugged in to charge.

The wheezing sound
of distant engines.
Late-coming workers returning
to stainless kitchens.

With night comes permission
to rely on the planet
for transport after driving all day
(some in old vehicles,

poorly maintained).
Petrol low,
sustained by ethanol
only, she idles

outside his flat
like a bus driver
playing Sudoku. Soon
the pub will close

and he will return;
he the metal,
she the magnet. He’ll open
his arms. They’ll cling.

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