They’re cleaning their car together.
He is too hard to wear a hat
outside in early December.
She is yellow comfort in hers,
gentle strokes of a soft sponge.
I think he hates his car,
trying to scratch it with water.
The driveway is suds
and unspoken conversation.
They both wave and smile
to a man without gloves walking home
to only a handful of faces he knows.

© Carl Burkitt 2021