My father rang, he said “what are
you doing, Sunday?”
I said “Why?”
“Because we’re flying into the airport
your mother and I”
“I’ll call you a cab?” I offered.
“We’d prefer it if you picked us up”, he
replied, unsure of my joke.
“How many bags?” I then asked.
“3: golfclubs, briefcase and clothes…”
“Better bring the car then”, I next said,
“sounds like a
heavy-ish load?”

I collected them from the airport, paid $7
for 20 minutes parking and delivered them
to my new flat:
they hummed and haared, smelt smoke on
everything; the car, the flat, my clothes…
And we went out for an Indian meal.

I spilt water across the table, my father
laughed at me, I didn’t know why, after all
he was paying the bill.

Dropped them, later, at their hotel
rode on, alone, back home
couldn’t smell smoke in my car,
in my flat, or on my clothes…

but I’m sure it was rising
from off the top of my head.

It’s hard sometimes being
the quiet son