The Filling Station

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The filling station

She sees him from the booth
and watches with distaste
the way the nozzle kicks and spews
its froth onto the forecourt.

He’s standing effing by the pump
feeling in his pocket for some change.
She flicks the switches
in response to angry buzzers.

She thinks of Sharon
who ought to be in bed
and Scott who’s nearly three
crying in the cot that’s wet again.

She puts two Mars Bars in her bag.
He’s trying to screw the cap back on.
Now he’s on his knees. It happened
Sunday night the same searching for the cap

as if he’s lost the thing he values most.
The law would put him right, she’d see to that.
She wonders why he bothers, her ex-bloke,
hunting there beneath the signage.

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