We all need to someone to watch our back,
says the man on TV. Yours
hunches at the wheel
as we sail through vineyards dense
with straining vines. Our cases bulge and scrape
as we lift them from the boot. You’ve drawn
the short straw – the orange one
with a dodgy wheel, a missing handle.
You exhale stiffly. Airborne,
you stretch across an empty seat;
I stroke you, neck to coccyx.
The taxi driver has a back sprain
so we haul our cases in, and out:
25 kilos each, according to the airport scales.
Your body’s silky as I spoon you
in a Travelodge, your spine
between my breasts, against my belly,
encased between our bodies like a silver chain
between two squares of cotton.
I can’t sleep. I turn; you spoon me.
Somewhere, our taxi driver’s pulling up,
someone’s saying, No, really, not a problem,
as they reach in for their luggage,
steadying themselves.
