Rain does its Glasgow thing,
a mikveh in droplets.
Windscreen wipers perform
simple acts of repair.
I drive south, the city
shrinks in the mirror
like an open wound healing.Â
The radio mumbles Del Amitri,
someone else’s memories.
Petrol station lilies in a bucket—
I think about buying forgiveness.
After Gretna, the clouds lighten,
though the road remains grey.Â
The car engine continues
to hum its tired story.
