Begin a little forward of the space;
now point the nearside corner at its centre...
His chemo drips, too late, and I must face
at last, at sixty-one, the need to enter
the world of driving. The years I sat just there
and never here... Full lock, you’re doing fine...
now back the other way... This isn’t fair:
cars are his job, cats and gardens mine.
Next year, perhaps a package tour of Rome
for “older singles”; long appraising glances
amid the ruins; socks-and-sandals men,
glib-voiced or wary, thinking of all back home
they miss and dread, and weighing up the chances
of making me a passenger again.