The car is dirty white; like our marriage, needing more than a wash.
All I can see are grim lips in the rear-view.
I suppose she sees me
but doesn't have my willingness for recognition.

I've seen her before on the Tube:
hurrying in a tunnel to catch a West-bound train.
I was walking slowly behind, reluctant to overtake,
scared to confront our ghosts.

I've seen her since on Kew Road
facing a bitter East wind, carrying a rucksack in both hands
that would have better suited her back.
Her cheeks were as rosy as ever.

And again in my mind:
recalling those times when we thought we were content.

Box Hill birthdays and flying yellow kites.
Sanding window wood and floorboards at night.
Those strange flashes from a camera outside.
Why should someone want pictures of us?
Egyptian cigarettes stolen from your suitcase.
Driving to Bristol to stay with your half-blind Mother.
We took the car that would never start.
Geese liked to peck its rusting doors.

Prehistoric Andorran dinners of dinosaur meat, but you did learn to ski.
Two nephews, and Mr. Toad under the rocks in a Devon garden.
The Topkapi Turk who arm-wrestled me and threw jugs of raki at the café walls.
You encouraged him, thinking you were teaching me a lesson about life or something.

The parties with Kid Creole and your time in LA.
Our time when you returned.

I know I'll see her again.