Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

I got there late,
he was at the door
waiting for me.

As I got out of the car
he was walking
towards me.

He looked uneasy.

I popped my trunk
and we started filling it
with his things.

There were boxes of books
and tapes and a few clothes
and a typewriter, mostly though
it was his books.

There was this girl there
too, saying good-bye to him.

She stood by the car
and watched us load it.

When the trunk was full
the back-end was almost
dragging.
Now, we had to give the girl
a ride to her house.

The back seat was packed tight
with bulging cardboard boxes.

She had to sit up front on
my friend’s lap.

You see, there had once
been something between
the two of them and this
whole scene made things
very uncomfortable.

We all kept our eyes straight
ahead, searching out the darkness,
staring at the headlights on
the road.

No one said a thing.

Outside her house she
wanted to kiss him.

She moved the tiny weight
of her body in towards
his tall skinny frame.

I looked away, down to the
floor of the car.

I felt like an intruder.

I felt like an eight year old
hearing his parents having sex.

I felt like I shouldn’t be there.

I stared at my feet,
my right foot on the brake,
my left just lying there.

They looked awkward,
like they weren’t part of me.

My feet looked big and content.

I thought of them moving across
cement sidewalks, slipping through
sand, standing still in tall grass.

The door opened and he got in.

I pointed the thing south and we moved
through the night in silence,
towards: Brooklyn, New York.