He stands in the half light,
shakes the can
sprays his tag, a neat ‘S’,
swiftly, silently but for the hiss.
Then squeaks the green microfibre cloth
’til he sees himself clearly.
Above the Truck Tyres
The truck tyres invert the rain,
and the up-droplets dance and
prance in parabolas,
leaping level,
synchronised in silver,
jumping just to there,
all rising with the racing,
and softening
as the driver slows.
