Driving along the back-roads of Clare,
Sunny but coming to the end of the day.
Window half down,
Left hand on his knee,
The other holding the last few drags of a cigarette.
Using only the heel of his hand to guide the car along the scribble of road with minimal effort.

A song came waltzing through the lo-fidelity speakers of his blue Cortina.
A song he hadn't heard in years,
As he had avoided it where he could.
He thought about turning it off but retreated his hand back to his knee,
Tapping his faded work jeans to the rhythm.
Smoked the last of the cigarette
And ejected it before winding up the window to **** the rumble of the wind.
Turning up the radio he sang along to the duet,
As they had done before.
It had been seven years.
He still leaves the gaps for her to sing.
Never again to be filled.